


Humming memories in winds of change

by anachronic_mai (danbrokethesoundbarrier)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Case Fic, EWE, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Minor Harry Potter/OC, Post-war mental health issues, Sentient Magical Houses (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danbrokethesoundbarrier/pseuds/anachronic_mai
Summary: Malfoy Manor was packed with the most obscure dark magic, and every time they achieved some sort of progress, everything would revert to its original state as soon as they left the premises. It was as if the estate, itself, was impervious to change; it was as if it’d suffered an irreplaceable loss and couldn’t cope with newness.“Well,” Harry thought, “at least we’ll have something in common,” and passed the deteriorated gate.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Other(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big, huge, enormous thanks to the lifesaver beta that is GallifreyisBurning for having the infinite patience to deal with this mess of a fic that I somehow managed to finish. 
> 
> This is my first chaptered work, at least the first one I finish and decide to upload, so I'm very excited (and very scared) but I hope you can enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Also, big hug to my friend Meli who's currently recovering from life events ♥
> 
> And thanks to you, dear reader, for giving this a chance!
> 
> \--
> 
> This work is complete and I'll be uploading daily.

It was early morning still; they wouldn’t arrive for another hour or two. That left plenty of time for Harry to get used to the idea, to get past the uncomfortable feeling that had kept him awake all night. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming. In fact, word around the Ministry was that they’d purposefully kept him out of it time and time again. Eventually, he’d have had to take the assignment, and that moment had now, apparently, come. During the past five years, a total of ten teams had worked this job -six months each- and yet, there hadn't been many breakthroughs. Malfoy Manor was packed with the most obscure dark magic, and every time they achieved some sort of progress, everything would revert to its original state as soon as they left the premises. It was as if the estate, itself, was impervious to change; it was as if it’d suffered an irreplaceable loss and couldn’t cope with newness.

“Well,” Harry thought, “at least we’ll have _something_ in common,” and passed the deteriorated gate.

As he walked the long path towards the house, he took in the abandoned surroundings. He’d heard things, of course: “It’s wrecked, truly creepy.” “Honestly, if I don’t ever set foot in the place again it’d be too soon.” He’d laughed and brushed it off as people being scared of the actual place; after all, it had been terrifying enough during the war. Even so, Harry had his reasons for not wanting to go there, and Head Auror Berrings seemed to agree. They all assumed it had to do with some kind of post-war trauma, and Harry let them believe that; he never spoke of it. War, that is. Or anything much, really. He just went through the motions, did his job. Went back to Grimmauld Place. Eat, sleep, repeat.

As he approached the end of the path formed by enormous, dead hedges, what once would’ve been a magnificent garden started to come into sight. It extended for miles in every direction, and the only indication of its borders were the trees visible in the distance, surrounding the property. The morning sun was starting to clear the sky and lighting up the expanse of the grounds. Among the dead grass he could see some kind of animal carcass, disturbingly still. Creeped out, Harry tried to focus his sight on the big old house, to just keep on walking.

\--

“Harry, my man! There you are! Thought you’d wait for us at the gate.”

“Sorry Sir, I guess I was just... you know.”

“Yes kiddo, definitely.” He didn’t know. “This place gives me the creeps. I’m happy to not have to come here for the next six months, to be honest. Just twice a year is definitely enough.” Berrings said with a disgusted face. The woman at his side exhaled with a similar expression.

“Oh, sorry! This is Cursebreaker Catriella Merryfold; she’ll be your partner. Catriella, this is Auror Harry Potter,” Berrings said with a glint in his eye and a proud smile that surfaced everytime he introduced Harry to anyone. Harry hated it.

“Hi.” He extended his hand to her.

“A pleasure, Mister Potter,” she said mechanically, and shook his hand without even glancing at him. Her eyes were set on the Manor.

“Well, I assume you’ve read the reports thus far, but let’s go through the bullet points to eliminate any doubts," Berrings instructed them as he unrolled a piece of parchment in the air. Merryfold looked at him with an air of utter offence at the implication that she would have missed anything or even _have_ doubts. It reminded Harry a bit of Hermione. He, on the other hand, didn’t really mind; any delay to setting foot inside the house was very welcome.

“So, hmm... Let’s see. Cellar’s been accessed twice so far and shut off again. First floor’s got a severe case of unmovable debris so... obstructed. Second floor inaccessible. The kitchen won’t let anybody in. East wing is occupied by a poltergeist; that one should be easy. Hmm... West wing, well that’s a tricky one. There seems to be some kind of linkage there with the house’s core, and those who’ve tried to enter it have suffered physical injuries, so be careful, lads. And... I think we’re done. Questions?” he asked, rolling the parchment again and bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, obviously eager to get back to his office as soon as magically possible.

Merryfold looked at Berrings, tired and unimpressed. Harry—who had skimmed through the reports, but figured if he read much then it’d deter him further from actually going and ended up hiding them under his vast pile of paperwork—asked: “So... basically everything’s, like, blocked?”

Berrings gave him an uncomfortable look. “Well, I wouldn’t say _blocked_... And not everything; I mean, the ground floor’s bathroom is said to be pretty cooperative.”

Merryfold rolled her eyes at them both and said, “I think we’ve got it; thanks, Head Auror.” Dismissing him, she headed towards the front door.

“Oh well, in that case, I’d better be going! Good luck!” And with a quick step, he hurriedly walked back to the gate.

Harry stood still for a moment, watching Merryfold’s long black ponytail swish behind her while she walked. The sun was up and blinding him; as sleep deprived as he felt, he didn’t quite know if he was imagining the subtle urge to get into the house or if he was being purposefully lured in.

Merlin, he was so tired.

\--

“What a shithole.” She took in their surroundings, scrunching up her nose. “No wonder they left the place to die.”

They were in the entrance hall, taking in, with disbelieving eyes, the rundown interior. Harry had assumed it was bad; based on his coworkers’ gossip, he’d gathered there’d be spiderwebs, dust, deteriorated paintwork. But this... this was much worse than that. Merely seeing the furniture gave him a strange pang of loneliness and abandonment he hadn’t been expecting to find here. He’d prepared for anger. He’d prepared for that so-talked-about trauma and an impulse to flee. Hell, he’d even prepared to revisit his memories in the place: Hermione being tortured, Dobby’s loyalty and death, Malfoy’s... well, Malfoy. But not this profound feeling of sadness, bleakness, something visceral. The memory of his cupboard in Privet Drive struck him, such a strange association made him wonder…

“-said you weren’t ready to be here, but _I_ , for one, was hoping you’d be a bit more professional. I mean, it’s just a bloody house, I don’t know what the big deal is-“

“Sorry, what?”

“Oh, you’re back,” said Merryfold apathetically. “Great. Shall we, or would you like to find a corner to brood some more?” she added, gesturing around.

“Yeah, sorry. Let’s go.” He said hurrying towards the central stairs.

“Potter, what on earth are you doing?”

“Er... I’m-” He gestured towards the first floor. ”You know.”

“Merlin’s beard! Didn’t you listen to that Head Auror of yours? First floor: blocked,” she said with a lingering tone of weariness. “Honestly...” she huffed.

Harry cursed himself internally. He was just so tired. Something other than exhaustion was taking him over, but he tried not to dwell on that.

Daylight was struggling to enter through the dirty windows in the foyer. He looked closely at a chair next to him. It was covered in some kind of pale blue ash. He swiped a finger over it and startled when a faint electric buzz went through him. He looked around, paying closer attention this time: every surface, wall, and floor was covered in it. Merryfold lifted an eyebrow at him. “Is this...“

“Magical residue. Yes. It _was_ in the reports; you remember those little odd things, right?”

“I’ve never seen residue like this. This is—'' Quite impressive, that’s what it was. Usually, magic left a residue trail so small it dissolved before reaching any surface, almost microscopic. Very powerful magic ejected a bigger amount, but never this much. Certainly not in one place. This was otherworldly and quite intimidating. “—a lot. I mean, is it even possible?”

“I’m starting to think you haven’t read them at all... Anyway, obviously, yes. It _is_ a lot. It’s not the work of any ordinary wizard or witch. _That_ I can confirm.” She explained. “It’s so old that the magical signature is completely gone. There are some theories about it, though. Of course, everything is in _the reports_.” Merryfold paused to look at him intently. “Whatever; the most plausible one is that it’s coming from the core.”

“Merlin... Could that even happen? A broken core?”

“Well, we can’t access it yet, can we?” she replied, annoyed.

“Look, why don’t we just get rid of that poltergeist first? Then we’ll have a starting point at least, we’ll figure it out from there.” Harry offered with his best conciliatory tone. He knew he wasn’t at his best today.

\--

“Now!” 

“ _Captus_!” they yelled in unison. As the poltergeist went flying into the broom closet, Harry quickly closed the door and cast a neutralisation spell over it. It was only temporary, but it gave them a few hours to investigate.

Several grimy windows stretched along one side of the corridor, barely illuminating the long row of portraits hanging on the opposite wall. The floor’s pattern was almost unnoticeable under the amount of trash and pieces of broken furniture covering it. Evidently, the poltergeist had been having a field day with the house. Harry moved closer to the portraits; some were torn, while others had fallen to the ground. All of them were empty, their occupants having fled to other parts of the house, or maybe to another house entirely. He’d have to read the reports to check that they’d all been traced and questioned on the matter.

There was some kind of doorway at the end; he couldn't see much across the poorly lit space. They walked cautiously towards it, knowing the house wasn’t particularly accommodating of new guests. Well, Harry knew, at least. He could somehow feel it.

He didn’t stop to reflect on why that would be.

They reached what Harry thought must have been a beautiful parlour. Luxury and big old stately houses weren’t his forte, if the conditions in which Grimmauld Place was being kept were anything to go by—and that was _with_ Ron and Hermione’s efforts to keep it habitable. Still, he could appreciate the value of antiques and history. Even _bad_ history. He went in after Merryfold, who had already started casting the required screening spells, but Harry couldn’t keep his eyes from focusing on the fine magical residue covering every inch of the room. There was just so _much_ of it. A renewed sense of breathtaking loneliness overtook him. He looked at his partner assessing the room, and he felt just so tired as he walked towards her.

“You’re right. I haven’t read the reports,” he admitted. “Mind filling me in on the state of this wing?”

\--

The sun was setting when he apparated into the small yard in front of Number 12. He cast a quick scourgify on himself, shrunk his robes so that he could stuff them inside the pocket of his jeans, and headed straight for the pub. 


	2. Chapter 2

A damp breath on Harry’s face woke him up the next day. His mouth had turned into a desert overnight, and with his eyelids still firmly shut, he felt the impending headache strike him with full force. The sun wasn’t up yet, and he wished for a long, warm bath. The man on the bed at his side didn’t even stir when Harry got up groggily. He dressed as quietly as possible and went into the bathroom to apparate home.

\--

The doorstep of Grimmauld Place greeted him like an old friend as he stood there hoping everyone was still asleep. He desperately needed a shower and maybe some hangover potion, which he was unfortunately quite sure they’d run out of. As he climbed up the stairs to his room, the creaking steps resonated loudly.

“Harry?” Hermione asked in a sleepy voice.

“Shit, sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Don’t worry, I had to get up anyway. Were you out again?” There was a tone of thinly veiled worry in her voice. Hermione didn’t exactly approve of his tendency toward drunken escapades.

“Yeah, sorry. Work was… complicated yesterday.”

“Oh, do you want to talk it out? I’ll put the kettle on.” She came into view, tightening her dressing gown.

“No, yeah. I mean, yes to the tea, but I’ve gotta go back soon and would rather take a shower now. Maybe later?” They both knew that later wouldn’t come.

“Sure.” She smiled at him with a pitying look. He hated it.

\--

Harry stood under the spray and let it hit his aching back and wash away the night. He brushed his teeth and tried not to think of the day ahead.

There hadn’t been any developments in the case. He knew it was still early on, and they’d have to find a way to unblock the other rooms if they wanted to make any kind of progress. They had managed to contain the poltergeist long enough for them to deem the East wing useless.

But there still was that unnerving cry for help he kept feeling, stronger in some rooms than others but never entirely gone. And it upset him; it made him feel vulnerable and distracted. The house was in immense pain, as if it was a bleeding animal roaring and showing its teeth to anyone that even dared come close enough. It didn’t want help, or at least not just _any_ help. If the Malfoys were around, maybe _they_ could do something about it. Well, he’d have to check those damned reports to make sure that option had been ruled out. As far as Harry knew, the day Voldemort was defeated they’d vanished from earth. Malfoy and Narcissa, that is; Lucius was evidently left behind and had died not long after his imprisonment.

The process of war reparations had been extensive and seemingly endless. Five years on, they were still dealing with the consequences: orphaned children, families destroyed, trauma, physical injuries, wild creatures roaming. Despite the Ministry’s best efforts, St. Mungo was quickly overwhelmed; they just didn’t have the physical space nor the human resources to tackle so many urgent cases. That was when the Wizengamot proposed a bill to repurpose Death Eater’s houses and make them into care centres. They lessened the sentences of those who collaborated, and as a result, quite a few estates were donated.

Hermione had been highly involved in the proposal and direction of some projects, such as the _Centre for Magical Creature’s Rights Enforcement and Protection_ and the _Lycanthropy Centre for Treatment and Containment_. There was also an orphanage developing a Magical Reinsertion Programme and a St. Mungo’s annex that helped divide the workload and take the less urgent cases that still needed constant medical care. The wizarding community was steadily recovering from the consequences of the war.

Despite the efforts, there was still an unexpected critical issue. A kind of mental health epidemic had arisen among some of those who’d suffered severe physical or emotional impact. At first, everyone was so busy treating the injuries that no one paid close attention to what was happening. But as things started to run more smoothly and months went on, the illness aggressively manifested itself. Parents who wouldn’t recognise their children, kids who wouldn’t acknowledge their surroundings; they progressively fell into a state of paralysing confusion and seemed to be downright absent and disoriented. Eventually, they wouldn’t be able to complete the most basic human functions. It was as if they had been put under some kind of gradual stasis. It had spread throughout a huge portion of the war survivors, and despite the Healers’ best efforts, they hadn’t enough resources to tackle the investigations. They called it the Mind Numbing Curse.

The Malfoy estate was one of the few available big enough to contain both an investigation centre and a treatment centre, both crucial in the development of a cure. That was why the Ministry was so adamant about getting their hands on it. But the house wouldn’t cooperate, and all efforts seemed useless, since each time, everything returned to its previous state after the teams left the premises. Harry’d even heard of people staying the night trying to work out what happened when no one left. But the house kept expelling them, as if guests weren’t welcome when the masters weren’t there.

And that was the problem, Harry thought. They needed to find the masters. It spoke really badly of their entire department that after five years they hadn’t even gotten close to a location, a name, anything at all.

Harry closed the tap and got out of the shower, drying himself quickly, he didn’t bother to try and find a hangover potion. He felt much more awake now, and the mist clouding his head had almost dissipated. He also didn’t feel like showing up late after yesterday’s poor performance in front of Merryfold. He’d actually liked her. She kept to herself, and her head was on the case entirely. She didn’t give a hot flying fuck that she was working with _the_ Harry Potter, and he thought that was a valuable asset after long years of unwanted attention.

He got dressed and got out of the house without going into the kitchen. This time, he’d managed a few hours of sleep at least.

\--

They arrived almost perfectly synchronised. “Morning, Potter,” Merryfold greeted him with an impassive expression. “I don’t suppose you’ve got around reading the _remarkably important_ reports, have you?”

“Hi,” Harry said with a quirk of his smile, “I promise I’ll get them out of the way this weekend. For now, your diligent and exhaustive input will have to do; sorry.”

“Fabulous, can’t wait,” she replied with an exaggerated eye roll. As she went through the gate, Harry heard her mutter something that sounded close to “—glorious Potter; what a real fucking honour.”

Harry grinned.

\--

The house was exactly the way it had been when they entered the day before. Harry even made sure to check the spot on the chair he’d swept his finger over and confirmed the trace had disappeared. _Everything back to its previous state. Right_ , he thought, _including the oppressive feeling that invaded him as soon as he stepped foot inside_. The palms of his hands were sweaty as he felt his stomach tighten.

“So, Merryfold,” he asked, trying to distract himself. “What do those holy reports of yours say about the unchangeable state of the house?”

She looked at him with an unamused face. "Well, for starters, those are not _my_ reports. If they were, they wouldn't be the mess of unintelligible scribbles that they are, let me tell you that." She looked around attentively. "To answer your question, though, known stasis spells have been ruled out, and there are no known curses that can cause this effect, either. All indications are that it's a matter of willpower," she concluded.

“Willpower? But how… whose?”

“Well, obviously either the master’s or the house itself.”

“Houses have willpower?” He asked, automatically thinking of Grimmauld Place and what it said about it that the house was barely habitable. Did it not want them living there? Well, he wasn’t exactly elated either, but he’d come to terms with it. Eventually.

Merryfold gave him an incredulous look. “Honestly! Well, of course not _all_ houses. For starters, we’re talking about magically inhabited spaces. It needn’t be a house, either, but it must be a space lived in continuously and for long enough to gather sufficient residue to form a core. You do know that’s what cores are made out of, yes?”

“Er… yes.” Harry said.

“Anyway, currently, there aren’t many places left with that kind of power. Usually one can find them in old estates like this one, but the thing is… when a house is abandoned, the core enters a dormant state to save energy for when its master returns. Eventually, if no one claims it, the core sort of… turns off. It dies. It’d take decades of care and continuous living in a house to actually reactivate it through the accumulation of new residue.”

“But this core hasn’t turned off yet.”

“No, Potter. It hasn’t.” She glanced around. “And _that_ … is a problem. There’s something, or someone, still keeping it alive.”

Harry looked at the ceiling, at the huge ornate stairs covered in debris. He felt the desperate pang of loneliness and thought of his cupboard again, wondering why his brain would make such an association. “It’s so _sad_.” He said without thinking.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it that. I mean, it is, after all the Malfoy Manor; it briefly housed the purest form of evil of contemporary wizarding history—“

“I mean the house… The- the core. It’s sad; can’t you feel it? It doesn’t know how to ask for help.” Harry murmured.

Merryfold looked at him intensely for a few seconds. “I’m… No. Well, in any case, let’s hope you’re right, because if it’s indeed asking for help, at least we have a chance to finish this job in one piece.”

\--

For the rest of the day, they worked on cleaning the debris blocking the path to the first floor. They knew it was a vain effort, but they hoped to maybe find something that the other teams had missed. By nightfall, they had made little progress. They had cleared a considerable amount of the rocks and other debris, but they were no closer to making a way through it all. Every muscle in Harry's body stung painfully by the time they called it a day and said goodnight.

\--

When he arrived at Grimmauld, the house was empty. He left his shoes at the entrance, took off his robes and dirty jeans, and went into the study. Ron and Hermione were used to him being around in his pants, anyway.

With a glass of firewhiskey in hand, he dropped on the couch, put his feet up on the little coffee table, and tipped his head back. Closing his eyes, he let the inevitable headache take up residence around his forehead.

He thought about Merryfold’s words. Was Grimmauld Place’s core dead? Was there someone inside Malfoy Manor, trapped? Certainly not; they couldn’t have survived all this time alone. But then again, the Malfoys were apparently untraceable. Vanished. His thoughts went back to his own house. He didn’t care much for it, but he didn’t _not care_ either. He thought of Sirius too. He let the memory of his scarce little bed in Privet Drive take form. He thought of his parents. Would their house in Godric’s Hollow have a core if they were still alive? He thought of a shining orb of pale blue ash, alone, devastated at being left behind. He imagined cradling it in his arms, sitting inside his tiny cupboard, caressing its luminous blond glow, whispering words of comfort. _It’ll be okay. It’ll be just fine…_

\--

A violent shake.

Screams… Someone was screaming for him. The core? Everything was shaking.

“-seems out of it. Mate!”

“Where’s the core?!” Harry yelled, opening his eyes abruptly.

“Mate, s’just me,” Ron said, lifting his hand from Harry’s shoulder where he’d been shaking him.

“Ron?”

“Yeah, sorry. Hermione wanted to let you sleep, but you were making sounds… Thought you might be having a nightmare and came to wake you up.”

“Sorry, Harry,” Hermione said. “I told him not to.”

“No, no… s’okay. What time is it, anyway?” A shiver went through him as he stretched his stiff back.

“Almost nine. You were out for a couple hours. What was that about a core?” Said Hermione, sitting next to him, her hand warm on his back.

Harry glanced at his untouched glass of firewhiskey on the arm of the sofa. “Core?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried look.

“Yeah, mate.” Ron said, sitting on the small table in front of Harry. “You were mumbling something about where the core was and that it needed your help…”

“Shit, sorry.” Harry let his head flop back against the sofa and exhaled loudly. “Shit.” He needed more information. He needed to find Malfoy. He needed to… to—

“Oh, Harry, just... I know the past few months we’ve been busy, but you know you can talk to us, right?” Hermione had that pitying look again. Harry just wished she didn’t worry so much, but he knew he gave her more than enough reasons. And it wasn’t like he was avoiding them. But they were actually really busy with work, and Harry needed to find more information. Now.

“Is this about the Malfoy estate? I fucking told Berrings to assign another Auror to the job, I—” Ron started, indignant.

“It’s fine! It’s fine. I’m just— I need to go back to the Ministry. I promise I’m okay. I just need to do some research—”

“Harry, it’s past nine!” Hermione protested.

“S’okay ‘Mione, I’ll go along,” Ron smiled at her.

She exhaled and gave them a stern look. “Alright, fine. But no staying longer than necessary, and, Harry,” she looked at him. “No. Pubs.”

Harry opened one eye without lifting his head and smirked at her. “Promise.” He said.

Hermione got up. “Ugh, you boys…” A note of affection lingering in her tone.

“Come on mate, if we hurry we can still make it in time for dinner.”

\--

_February 1st, 1999  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Flutworth, Eurydice [Auror]  
Roberts, Edmund [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004589]  
External grounds and surroundings look abandoned; no signs of wildlife. House access was thoroughly blocked upon entrance, but was cleared on arrival. No immediate hostility encountered. Scanning results show no signs of human life or entities. First floor access: blocked. West wing: dangerous. Cursebreaker Roberts suffered several cuts to his left side and loss of his left hand while trying to access it. Do not attempt to enter. Some magical residue visible over the entrance hall floors. Sample taken for analysis disappeared once it reached the Ministry. _

_\--_

_March 30th, 1999.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Flutworth, Eurydice [Auror]  
Roberts, Edmund [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004646]  
Tried to gain access to the upper floors from the outside. Brooms couldn’t get us close enough. Heard laughter coming from the inside. Repellent? Protection charm? Energy barrier. Cursebreaker Roberts couldn’t fly with one hand. Two-man job. Scanning results now show the presence of a poltergeist._

\--

_April 2nd, 2000.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Smith, Patrick [Auror]  
Dempsey, Julianne [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004649]  
Unblocked the cellar entrance. Unreadable results upon scanning. Space fabric seems corrupt. Magic doesn’t work properly. Can’t even cast lumos. Cursebreaker Dempsey received an energy discharge from thin air. No apparent source on sight. Suspect the poltergeist._

\--

_May 21st, 2001.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Mollywald, Clarice [Auror]  
Eckhart, Samantha [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004698]  
House keeps restoring itself to its decaying state after every visit. We’re spending the night to see how it responds. Results: at midnight we received a blunt hit on the head caused by the fall of a wrecked grand piano. Suspect the poltergeist. Auror Mollywald has been taken into St. Mungo for head trauma. Piano is no longer in the area when visited the next day. Notable increase of magical residue over the furniture in the foyer._

_\--_

_June 3rd, 2001.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Mollywald, Clarice [Auror]  
Eckhart, Samantha [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004712]  
Finally got rid of that hideous poltergeist, at least for today. Trapped it in the broom closet and cast a neutralisation spell over it. Corridor: empty. Parlour: nothing relevant. 23 empty portraits. Need to find house inventory to trace and question them._

_\--_

_December 23rd, 2001.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Bloom, Margaret [Auror]  
Shabberts, Helen [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004916]  
Update on the missing portraits. House inventory hasn’t been found yet. Tried summoning charms. Numbers 2 to 12 seem to have abandoned their posts definitively. The fabric is torn and rotten. Numbers 1, 13, 17, 20 and 21 have migrated elsewhere inside the house. Number 14 responded to the summoning. Fruitless effort; he keeps repeating he’s Sir Cicerous Merrywill, grand, grand, grand cousin, twice removed of Merlin himself. Died of dementia. Sadly, it also affected the portrait. Numbers 15, 16 and 18 have had their frames shattered against the floor. No response to the summoning._

_\--_

_January 4th, 2002.  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Gorn, Filibertus [Auror]  
Lovegood, Melissa [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M004928]  
Still no luck in trying to get hold of remaining portraits. Poltergeist can’t be removed. Seems angry. Cursebreaker Lovegood claims to have a relative that can put them to sleep with their singing. Update: didn’t work. Kitchen door keeps locking itself as soon as anyone gets close to it._

_\--_

_August 8th, 2002  
Malfoy estate, Wiltshire.  
Assigned to:  
Berkins, Randall [Auror]  
Lorren, Luke [Curse-breaker]_

_Report code: [M005144]  
Today we tried accessing the cellars. Override of magical blockage took three hours. A strange, creepy rattling coming from the walls. Food leftovers and other unidentifiable organic remains found on the floor. Analysis results made on the premises confirmed they’re human. There’s a door on the wall opposite the entrance. Unable to reach it; walls start to close in as one walks._

_\--_

Harry took off his glasses and massaged his temples, feeling the exhaustion slumping his body. He put the glasses back on and glanced at the solitary clock over the kitchen mantelpiece. Ten minutes to 2:00AM. He went over to the sink and emptied his cold mug of tea, leaving it unwashed. His tired feet dragged against the floorboards on his way to bed.

As usual, once his head hit the pillow, his mind went into work-mode, providing him with images, theories, and a litany of things to keep him awake. Reading those reports hadn’t gotten him near any breakthroughs on the case, but he was now sure of two things: number one, continuing to try to search and _repair_ the house was a pointless endeavour; number two, he needed to find Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

A twinkling, violet, neon sign read _sibuna_ from where Harry was sitting next to the window cradling an empty pint. He snorted to himself at the word.

“Hey, Ron! Mate,” he yelled over the noise of music and chattering. Ron turned his head to him, he was cradling an equally empty pint. “Mate. What the fuck is a- a… _sibuna_?” He pointed to the sign.

Ron looked at him with a serious expression. Then looked at the sign, and looked at him again. Then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Wha’ ‘Mione, what?” He looked at Hermione, who was giggling from her side of the table, watching them. Ron was clutching his stomach and gasping for air.

“Ron! Ron! ‘Mione he’s… Ron?” Was Ron dying? Oh shit, what if he’d gotten poisoned again? He needed Hermione to stop giggling and look at him!

“Yes, Harry,” she said with a wide grin. “He’s definitely Ron.” And with tears in his eyes, still unable to speak, Ron went kneeling to the floor.

“Merlin’s… beard…” He managed out in a squeaking tone. “Oh. Merlin’s. Fucking. Beard. I can’t—“

He slowly got up and Hermione helped him sit down again. He was panting while trying to compose himself.

“Well,” she said, “no more drinking for you, boys.”

Harry was perplexed but utterly happy that Ron hadn’t died. He was so lucky that Ron hadn’t died. He loved Ron. And Hermione. He loved them both.

“Anubis.” Ron said, collecting himself.

“What?”

“The sign, mate! You’re reading it backwards!” He started laughing again. No risk of horribly dying this time. Right. _Anubis_. The Muggle pub. What a stupid name that was, anyway.

“There isn’t a single pyramid here. Not even… sand.” Harry thought that was a brilliant point he was making there. In honest truth, there wasn’t.

Ron started hysterically laughing again and excused himself to the loo.

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “Oh, Harry. Just how much did you drink?! Honestly!”

 _Quite a lot_ was the answer. It was a Saturday, after all. He’d started on the firewhiskey at home at around six. Then things just… sort of escalated.

“‘s go dancin’.” Harry slurred.

“Oh, I don’t think so… Ron’s pretty smashed and I need to work a bit tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow's _Sunday_! You work too much, you know what they say...” he trailed off.

“I know, but this is an important legislation and... Anyway, what do they say?”

“Who?”

“Ugh, nevermind,” she smiled at him. “Why don’t you come home with us, too?”

“Nah. I’ll go alone. Need to blow off some steam.”

Ron came back and sat next to Hermione with a miserable expression on his face. “I think I laughed too hard, I’m not feeling that great…”

“Oh, come one you idiot, let’s get you home.” said Hermione getting up. “Harry’s going dancing without us, anyway.”

“Sorry, mate. I’ll come with next time, when my insides are not trying to climb out of my body.”

“Bye, Harry. Please be safe,” Hermione said with a stern look and went out to hail a taxi.

\--

Harry stood at the bar, just watching. He didn’t really like clubs, but they were a safe, M _uggle_ space to meet people. He went there quite often, in fact. He never stayed long.

After the war, dating had felt like a nuisance. He’d been working long hours, irritable from the lack of sleep, and with all of his energy put into the reparations project he’d felt he couldn’t handle the work and dedication a relationship demanded. A couple of years later, when things got quieter—more organised, he gave it a try with a coworker from the Ministry. After a few dates, he realised he couldn’t handle that, either. Dating people inside the Wizarding community was an impossible task for Harry Potter. So, one night, he found himself wandering around London and ended up in a Muggle club.

The only fucks that were given about him that night were of a different sort entirely, and the exact right kind. So he’d just gone with it and kept regularly showing up.

“Come back to mine.” Harry lifted his face from the pretty mark he was leaving on the guy’s neck. Jimmy… no, Billy? He looked at him. Definitely Jimmy. He lowered his head and kissed him again, pressing their bodies further into the wall. He felt a shiver run through him as Jimmy grabbed his arse with both hands, increasing the friction between them.

“Yeah,” whispered Harry entranced, “let’s go.”

\--

“Do you want a drink, Harry?” Jimmy offered from the kitchen while Harry laid his jacket on the back of a random chair. He didn’t have much to drink at the club, being quite pissed when he arrived, but now he felt himself sobering up.

“Sure, thanks! Some fir- Er… whatever you’re having will do!” He sat down on the living room couch and grabbed a random magazine from the coffee table.

“I’ll make us some cocktails, then! Make yourself at home.”

It was a nice apartment; right in central London, as far as Harry could tell. It was a bit barren, but homey, and Harry felt as if he was in a fancy hotel. Not that he’d been to many hotels. Or fancy ones, for that matter, but he figured this was what one’d look like. He skimmed through the magazine’s pages idly, waiting. He wasn’t that thirsty, he just wanted to go to the bedroom. Or stay on the couch; it wouldn’t really matter.

The pages were full of seductive, black and white pictures of pristine men selling a watch, a perfume. There was the occasional article. The fashion world was so far away from Harry’s reality that he thought he’d never actually seen pictures like these, even though the streets were probably packed with them. The models were easy on the eyes and alluring, some more of his type than others. Jimmy had turned the mixer on, and Harry rolled his eyes. Just a freaking beer would’ve been _fine_. An article called “Must Haves for Winter: Can’t Go Wrong With These French Trends!” showed several pictures framing the writing. A brunette in a suit that was holding a shiny, red bag; one of a bald, naked woman wearing only an open beige trench coat; and one of an attractive blond with some kind of white silk shirt falling from his shoulders. He was looking directly at Harry with a familiar expression and biting his thumb. Harry felt his heart pounding hard against his chest, the flutter in his stomach a rapid indication of how turned on he was.

The magazine landed with a soft thud when Harry tossed it on the table again. He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed Jimmy from behind, who yelped as Harry bit his ear. “I don’t really feel like drinking anymore. Let’s go to bed.”

“Fuck.” Jimmy exhaled, lowering his hands from the mixer. “Yeah, yeah let’s.” He turned in Harry’s arms, drinks forgotten on the counter, and pushed him against the small kitchen table behind him. Harry reclined against it, holding his weight on both arms as Jimmy unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes fixated on the tanned skin that was being slowly uncovered with each button. Jimmy stroked a hand from his neck towards the trail of hair that got lost inside Harry’s strained jeans. He was taking him in, his well-worked body, some scars on show. Harry was aware of his looks, and so he let him.

“God...” Jimmy moaned. “I wanna eat you up.” He stroked a hand over Harry’s erection.

“So eat me.” Harry replied, pushing up from the table and chasing a wet kiss.  
  
\--  
  
Sunday morning found Harry waking up relaxed and, happy to notice, even though it was early still, he’d managed to get probably about six hours of undisturbed sleep. He got up from bed, trying to be quiet, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen in search of his discarded shirt.

“Abandoning me so early?” Jimmy asked groggily as Harry was reaching for the door.

Harry turned on the spot with a nervous smile. He didn’t know how to do this part. He usually left unnoticed or made up some shitty excuse, but one way or the other, he _never_ stayed. “Sorry, uhh...”

Jimmy sat up against the headboard. Morning light made his soft skin shine; he looked beautiful. “How about... I make us some coffee, you give me your number, and _then_ you leave? What do you say, gorgeous?” he asked with a lazy smile.

Thing was, Harry didn’t do this. It just wasn’t a thing Harry did. This? Harry didn’t do it.

But he’d had a genuinely great time; he’d actually enjoyed himself for once and not just satiated a deep-rooted hunger. He didn’t feel like hiding the evidence so quickly this time. Harry was about to say _yes_ but Jimmy was already walking past him, heading straight to the kitchen.

\--

“So,” Jimmy blew the steam on his mug, “what is it you do again?”

Harry, wholly dressed now, entertained himself by stirring his coffee. “Well, I guess... I work in security.” Despite his extensive Auror training, he was never prepared for these kind of questions from Muggles.

“You guess?”

“It’s complicated…” he trailed off.

Jimmy lifted a perfectly lined brown eyebrow as if expecting him to go on. Harry watched it go down. Then, frown. “Something wrong?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not completely awake yet.” He lied. “So, what do you do then?”

“I’m in fashion. I work in a boutique in West Kensington,” Jimmy said and then added, with a smirk, “You know... You’d make quite the model.”

Harry choked on his coffee and started to cough violently. Jimmy got closer and hit him softly in the back a few times. “You okay there, shy boy?”

“Ahem, yeah. Thanks. I don’t think-” he stopped abruptly. A faint recollection of a face from the night before. “Did we... Sorry, were we alone last night?”

Jimmy looked at him with an expression of worry dangerously similar to Hermione’s. “Yes, yes, we were. Are you alright? You said you were fine, I thought we had a good time…”

“No, no. Jimmy,” Harry grabbed him by the shoulders “you were perfect. It’s just. I have this face in my head. A blond guy with... some kind of shirt. Nevermind. You were awesome, but I’ve got to go now. Thanks for the coffee.” He set the mug on the table and got up.

“Billy.”

“What? Who’s Billy?” Harry turned immediately, his stomach churned.

“Me.” Jimmy said, grinning.

Harry stared at him, his face heating. “Billy…” He repeated under his breath. “I am _so_ sorry. Merlin, I’m an arsehole. So. Sorry.”

“Hey! Who’s Merlin?!” Billy asked laughing.

Harry looked up wincing, exhaled in utter distress, and got out of the apartment.

\--

A tumbling pile of papers hid Hermione from view when Harry entered the study. He slumped on the sofa face down and groaned loudly.

“Good night?” She said without lifting her head from what she was reading.

“Don’t ever let me drink again. I’m serious, Hermione. You slap me. You cast a body-bind curse on me. I do _not_ care.”

“Oh dear, that bad, huh? And here I was, thinking you were late because you were having a second round. Silly me.” She looked at him. He turned on his back, his feet dangling off the armrest.

“I made an arse of myself this morning. You wanna know what the worst part was?” He twisted his head to the side to see her face. “I was actually sober! We were having coffee!”

“I’m sure it was nothing; you’re lovely!” She said dismissing him.

“Apparently not if you’re on my shag list. I spent the majority of last night and some of this morning mentally calling him Jimmy until I said it out loud.” He covered his face with his hands, grunting.

“And...?”

“Billy. Billy from the fashion boutique.” He finished.

“Harry! You’re ridiculous!” She exclaimed—unnecessarily cheerful, if you asked Harry. “Now go self-flagellate elsewhere; you’re fine, and I’ve got work to do. Tomorrow, you need to be in top shape to go back to Malfoy’s.”

Harry’s insides suddenly turned to ice, his head making quick connections at the sound of Malfoy’s name. “Shit.” He muttered, sitting up. “Shit, shit, shit!” His head fell into his hands.

Hermione was instantly at his side. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I saw him.” He felt his eyes inexplicably fill with tears. “I fucking knew it.”

“Who?” She asked warily. Then, “Malfoy? You saw Malfoy?” Her eyes were big and... scared.

“Merlin, no. I mean, yes. But not like, real.” He stood up. “Ji-Billy had this fashion magazine; he was making us some drinks, cocktails. Anyway, he was there, Hermione! I saw his picture in a magazine. A _fashion_ magazine!” How could he not have recognised him last night? It was so obviously Malfoy. “I thought— I thought... He had _makeup_ on!” He got up from the couch and started pacing around the room. “I’ve gotta get back. I’ve got to go right now.”

“No.” She grabbed him by the arm. “No, you’re not going anywhere like this. Have a cuppa, please Harry. Try to calm down a bit.”

Harry refused to let a single tear fall in Malfoy’s name. Why the bloody hell was his body reacting this way? He took a breath. “I- I have to go, now. It’s the core... the Manor. I have to find him, Hermione.” He knew he sounded desperate, his tone pleading, but he just didn’t have the time or energy to care about it. His mind was set on one goal only.

“Look, at least take Ron. I can’t go with you right now, and you’re... well, you’re in a _state,_ Harry.”

Harry nodded and hurried upstairs to find him.

\--

Ron took a bite of his sandwich while he walked with Harry to the subway entrance. “I just don’t see wah’ weh can’t affarate there,” he swallowed, “where does this Billy guy live, anyway?”

“Er…” He started. “I can’t really remember.”

“Merlin... And you’re sure it was Malfoy in the magazine?”

“Er... No, not really,” Harry replied sheepishly. “But I’m quite sure? I don’t know how to explain it, I just have this feeling in my gut...”

“Merlin, Mate. This feels like sixth year all over again!”

“Shut up, Ron. We need to find him.”

“Yeah... Yeah, I know.” Ron replied quietly. “So what’s the plan if we can’t apparate and you don’t remember?”

“Well, I left in such a hurry I didn’t take a good look at the place. But maybe if we retrace my steps?”

“We can try...” He didn’t sound convinced.

\--

They got off at Covent Garden because that’s where Harry had gone to take the subway from Billy’s that morning. He often enjoyed taking Muggle transport, it cleared his mind. They walked down a few streets. Harry was highly regretting not asking for Billy’s number. They took a left turn. Then turned again and found themselves in front of a coffee shop that looked vaguely familiar. “I think we’re close, come on.”

They walked for at least half an hour through the cool wind that marked the end of summer. They went around a corner and stood in front of the same coffee shop as before. “Mate, Harry...” Ron started.

“Yeah, crap, I know.”

“Isn’t there _any_ other way to contact this guy? I don’t think wandering like two creeps will take us anywhere, and I was quite hoping to spend a Sunday at home, to be honest.”

“I don’t know...” He mumbled. “Well, actually... I think there is.” He turned to look at Ron’s puzzled expression. “Billy said he worked in a fashion boutique,” Harry said eagerly.

“And...? You don’t expect us to go around all of London’s boutiques asking for a Billy, do you?”

“No,” Harry said, grinning. “Just West Kensington.”

“That’s great and all, but you _do_ know it’s Sunday? Shops closed and all.”

“Ugh, I’ll ask Berrings then. Tomorrow, before going to the Manor.”

\--

Harry spent the rest of the day locked inside his bedroom, going quietly mad about the whole situation. There were just too many elements to it. Too many disconnected and unlikely scenarios. He fell on the bed face first and turned onto his back, watching the patterns the aged, peeling paint made on the ceiling. Had that picture really been Malfoy? He didn’t know how to explain the sinking feeling in his gut; he’d been on the verge of crying. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? He thought of the house, injured and left to die. So angry and distrustful. He’d felt like that many, many years ago. Those were memories he didn’t particularly want to revisit, so he went back to thinking about the picture in the magazine. Exile had done him good, if that was Malfoy at all. Harry almost hadn’t recognised him; it was as if his body had reacted long before he did. And Merlin on a boat... He’d gotten so hard just by looking at it. He covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. _Shit._ This was getting too weird, too fast. Did his body want Malfoy? Could this be a side effect of being inside the Manor? He couldn’t imagine Cursebreaker Merryfold getting turned on by a picture of Draco _fucking_ Malfoy.

No, he was clearly going mad. Maybe if he was lucky enough, he’d develop a case of Mind Numbing Curse and forget all about this.

\--

In the evening, after he’d taken a shower and taken care of some... pressing matters, he felt more relaxed and ready to face the next day. He eventually decided on fixing some dinner; his stomach would be grateful for some sustenance other than coffee. Maybe the three of them could eat together for once.

As he rounded the corridor, he heard a quick succession of whispered words coming from the kitchen. When he entered, Ron and Hermione were agitatedly hissing with their heads close together. They went quiet as soon as Harry made his presence known.

“Harry!” Hermione squeaked. “There’s some leftover chicken, if you want.”

Harry looked at them sternly, then went to open the pantry. “I was actually thinking of cooking. Do you guys want anything?” he asked, thoroughly reading the label of a tomato sauce can.

“Sure. You thinking of pasta?” Ron offered.

Pasta. Yeah. That’s what Harry was thinking about.

\--

Harry took a deep breath and knocked on the door. A golden sign that read “Head Auror G. Berrings, DMLE” vibrated with each knock. The door opened a few seconds later, and Berrings' tired face appeared. “Harry, my boy! Is everything alright?”

“Hello, yes, Sir. I was just wondering if I could have a quick word with you.”

“Oh, most certainly, come in, come in!” He gestured with his hand, then turned to his secretary at the desk beside the door. “Robin, please make sure we’re not interrupted.” He closed the door behind him and went to sit on his chair, across the desk from Harry.

“Good news, I hope. Please don’t tell me you’re giving up on the Malfoy house.”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. But it has to do with it.” Harry went quiet for a moment, thinking about the best way to explain everything. “You see…” He stopped. How could he explain Billy?

“Yes…?” Berrings said anxiously.

“Well, the thing is. I’ve been thinking about Malfoy. Er… About the Malfoy Manor.” He quickly added. “About, about how helpful it’d be to find its master, right?”

“Oh, yes, very. But you are aware that the Ministry lost track of the son and mother, aren’t you? There was quite a scandal; they didn’t even get a trial. To be honest, I personally think that once we caught the father, they didn’t want to spend any more resources going after the other two. But they’re still fugitives.”

Harry stalled for a minute. If he found Malfoy, this could go very wrong for him. _Why should you care?_ A voice offered in his head. _I don’t_. He scoffed.

“Yes, I know. We should have caught those scumbags years ago.” Berrings added in response to his misunderstood gesture. “But the financial situation in face of reparations has been critical; you know that, Harry. Was there anything else? You should be at the Manor in half an hour,” he replied, checking his desk clock.

 _Fuck it,_ Harry thought. The house was suffering, and Malfoy should take responsibility, if not for his crimes, at least for this. “Sir, I think I might have a lead on his whereabouts. I was wondering if I could take the day to pursue it.”

Berrings’ eyes opened slightly. “A lead, you say?”

“Yes, but I need to confirm it. It’s just over in West Kensington.”

“Yes… Yes, of course. Well, in that case, you can take half the day off. I don’t want Cursebreaker Merryfold to wander alone in that damned house. Our department doesn’t need more injuries on its behalf,” he said decisively.

“Thank you, Sir.” And as he got up, a thought came into his mind. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt the need to step up for Malfoy, or if saying this was even that. It certainly felt like it. “There’s one more thing, Sir.”

Berrings gestured for him to go on.

“It’s a _Muggle_ lead. Thought you should know.” Harry blurted and left without waiting for a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

There was no sign of Merryfold when Harry arrived at the gate. He couldn’t have been more than a few minutes late, but he went in anyway, walking through the long road of dried hedges. When the Manor came in sight, he spotted a silhouette at the entrance. He quickened his pace.

“Sorry, sorry…!”

“Oh, good, you’re here. I thought I’d lost you to those _frightful_ reports.” Merryfold greeted.

“You’ll be happy to know I’ve actually read them.”

“Delighted, honestly. Who would’ve thought you had the full capacity to do your job?” she answered bleakly. “So, what’s your assessment, Auror?”

“Well, I don’t think the portrait tracing will lead us anywhere. Not for now, at least. I’d like to inspect the cellar,” he offered. “I think that’s our best shot at the moment.”

Merryfold went pale. “The cellar,” she repeated absently.

“Yeah, it’s the only area that has been successfully breached, apart from the East wing. Something is happening down there, according to the reports. We should take a look,” Harry explained.

Merryfold didn’t answer. A strange expression settled on her face, her shoulders drawn down in distress.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked her, getting closer. He briefly lifted a hand toward her shoulder, but took it back just as quickly.

Merryfold let out a long exhale. She was still looking at the house, an unreadable expression on her face. “Well, you’ve read the reports now. I-Those human remains they found… My sister was held captive there. They… they never found her body. She might’ve died down there, Potter. Or been fed to that hideous snake, I don’t really know. But I can’t…” She took a breath to calm herself down. This was the most she had shared of her personal life. “I don’t think I can go in there, Potter. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to.” She looked at him then. He looked at her ever-callous expression, and in the midst of it, Harry found terror in her eyes.

“I’ll go, then.” He said, convinced any other efforts to breach the house’s defence were useless. “I’ll go, and you can keep at it with the stairs. Or contain the poltergeist. Now that I think about it, it’d be an immense help not to have it wandering around.”

She nodded. “Please send a Patronus as soon as you are in any danger. We can’t keep losing _good_ people to this old, horrid place.” She said, emphasising the _good_ , and Harry knew she meant it.

“Oh! I almost forgot. I… I talked to Berrings this morning. That’s why I was a bit late,” Harry explained. “I asked for permission to take half the day off. So, I guess if I don’t stay, you don’t have to either.”

“Slacking at work already, Potter? What could possibly be so important that it can’t wait ‘til seven?” Harry was grateful to hear that acid tone again. The sad and terrified one didn’t suit her.

“I might have a lead on Malfoy,” he explained. “There’s no confirmation of it yet. I need to… I need some time to see if it checks out. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Malfoy? Didn’t he die in Azkaban?”

“Yes, well, Malfoy _senior_ did. Not his son, Draco.” It felt completely alien and unfamiliar to say his name, and Harry almost trembled. And then he wondered who on earth reacted like that at the mention of a name and what the hell was wrong with him yet again.

“Oh, the idiot boy, yes. I forgot. What, do you think he may want to help with this hopeless pile of bricks?” she asked, gesturing to the house.

“I think,” he said, “that we should try to find him. I think there aren’t many other options for us at this point.”

\--

_Drip…_

_Drip..._

A leak. At least, it sounded like one in the complete darkness of the room. Harry was walking slowly, a hand touching the wall as he moved. He could see a horizontal sliver of soft light at floor level in the distance. That must have been the door mentioned in the reports.

It had taken much less than three hours to access the cellar, but it still hadn’t been easy. The spells had kept bouncing off the iron door. When Harry had finally gotten in, it had shut itself violently behind him as if it was indignant someone had gotten past it. Merryfold had gone quickly upstairs to deal with the poltergeist, and Harry was left standing in the dark, assessing where to begin the inspection. He opted for the left side and decided to move clockwise around the room, sticking to the wall for guidance. That was as far ahead as he had planned. He didn’t really know what to do apart from checking the room, but his gut told him he needed to be there.

He kept walking towards the door. It didn’t look like it was too far, maybe about ten meters. His footsteps resonated loudly, and at one point he stepped onto something tender that stuck to the sole of his boot. He tried not to stop or think about it. He tried not to think of anything apart from that door. This had been the place so many of them had been held captive during the war: Mr. Ollivander, Luna, and Griphook… His treacherous mind presented the memory of Dobby rescuing them, and Harry had to stop for a few seconds, an annoying buzz in his head going instantly quiet. He took a deep breath and noticed a wetness on his face. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and rested his head against the cold wall in an effort to collect himself.

As soon as he started walking again, the buzzing sound returned. Harry stopped to try clearing his mind and the thrum went quiet. His heartbeat quickened as he moved and felt the soft noise increase again. _Shit_. Didn’t the reports mention something about the walls? He searched his brain in a fruitless effort, trying to remember.

He took a few steps forward. The buzz was getting louder in his ears. He kept his eyes locked on the door ahead. He hoped to Merlin it was an actual door, because that was the only prospect keeping him going. The thrumming was messing with his head; a pulsating headache struck him and he lifted both his hands to put pressure on his temples. As he did so, his elbows knocked against hard concrete. _Both_ elbows. He reached a hand to the left and touched the guide wall. Then, he slowly lifted his other arm and extended his hand to the right until another wall met the gesture. The wall on the right; the far, far wall on the right.

_Walls start to close in as one walks_ , he suddenly recalled. Shit. The door was so close, and the pain was making him numb. He really didn’t feel like being crushed to death in Malfoy’s basement. He tried taking a step backwards with a hand on each wall.

The right one moved back a step.

So, he could go all the way back and get out of there safely, but with no additional information whatsoever. Or… he could try sprinting for the door.

He went back a few meters to gain momentum and took a deep breath. _Eyes on the prize,_ he thought to himself, and ran.

The moment he picked up speed, the thrumming turned into a deafening noise. He kept running, watching the slice of light under the door become shorter until a heavy weight against his right shoulder brutally pressed him against the left wall. He stopped moving. He was almost there, but if he got any closer the walls would crush him. He tried loosening his arms to no avail. His squirming was pointless; he couldn’t move. The walls had trapped him, he could only touch the ground with the toes of his boots, as if he’d been caught running mid-air.

At least the thrumming had ceased. He was finding it hard to breathe and tried not to panic. “Okay…” he whispered to himself. “Baby… steps.” and tried flexing the fingers of his hand. He couldn’t fully make a fist, but he was able to at least lightly move them. He concentrated on reaching for his jean’s front pocket, where his wand was. A finger brushed against the fabric and its familiar texture automatically calmed him. “Okay…” He exhaled. Slowly, he laced his index and middle fingers around the wand and made it go upwards against his palm carefully taking it out. Instant relief coursed through his veins at the feeling. He twisted his hand to the right as much as he could and taking a big gulp of air he yelled, “ _Bombarda_!”

The impact of the spell generated an enormous tremor and dust went flying all over the place. He shut his eyes quickly and held his breath, waiting for the cloud of dust to settle.

He chanced a glance at the wall. In the poor light it was difficult to see, but he pretty much knew it, anyway. It was untouched.

“Shit…!” he gasped.

He tried again. There weren’t many other options but persistence.

After a few minutes, sweat was pooling on his neck, the drops caught in his eyelashes tickling his skin. He was covered in dust and starting to feel desperate.

“Potter?” a distant voice said from behind him. “I heard an explosion.”

“Me-Merryfold…?” he managed to say. “Here…”

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching slowly. “Where are you?” She sounded scared. “Are you okay?”

“Care… ful…” he said and heard her try to cast a Lumos. A potent light illuminated the space around him for no more than a second before it went out.

The sound of Merryfold’s steps stopped. “Fuck, Potter, what happened?”

“Trapped… Wall,” he panted. His shoulders were starting to give in to the pressure.

“ _Confringo_!” he heard her shout.

A huge explosion burst somewhere near him, casting a momentary orange hue over the walls. He closed his eyes again. When he opened them, the right wall remained intact, but there was a tiny crack on the left one only visible by the proximity to the light under the door.

“Try again!” He shouted.

“ _Confringo_!” she yelled. The spells weren’t as potent as they should be, but after a few tries, he’d managed to free his left arm.

“Okay.” Harry said, catching up his breath. “Okay. This is what we’ll do. I need to keep pressure against the left wall to keep it from further closing in.”

“What can I do?!” Merryfold said, distress clear in her tone. Harry cursed himself internally for making her come down here.

“Just keep at it with the spells on the left wall!”

“What if it hits you?!” she yelled.

“Well, I really don’t see any other way, do you?” he shouted back in exasperation.

“All right! On the count of three!” Merryfold warned. Harry closed his eyes tightly. “One… Two… Three! _Reducto_!”

She kept at it, alternating between _Confringos_ and _Reductos_ , and Harry slowly started to feel his left leg loosen while pressing all his weight against the right wall and trying not to move with each explosion.

“Okay, stop!” he yelled when he noticed he could swing his leg forward and backward. “I think it’s enough.”

“What’s the plan?!” Merryfold yelled from behind. She was still a few meters away.

“I think I’ll jump forward and let the walls collide! What do you think?” he asked, his voice strained by the force he was exerting to hold the wall back.

“I think it’s madness!” Merryfold shouted, and Harry rolled his eyes with a tiny smirk on his face.

“Thanks!” he huffed, extending his leg forward and happily noticing that it comfortably reached the door in front of him. With a hand on each wall for support, he took a step back and kicked the door down with all his might. He took advantage of his momentum and jumped straight through it. He didn’t have time to be grateful about the fact that it had easily opened before the walls loudly crashed against each other, collapsing all over the cellar floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

“Merryfold!” Harry yelled between coughs over the quickly dissipating cloud of dust.

“Potter! Thank Merlin! Are you okay?” Her voice resonated loudly from somewhere far away. “I don’t think I can get through the clutter!”

“Go back upstairs!” He instructed.

“Are you mad?! I can’t leave you here. Where are you, anyway?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out! I’m…” He took a quick look at his surroundings. It was a small chamber lit by the fire of a solitary candle next to where the door should’ve been, now residence to an immense pile of rocks and concrete. “I’ll find a way out, but please go back; it’s not safe here, and one of us needs to call for backup!”

“Fine,” she admonished. “But if something happens to you, I _swear_ I’ll make sure you won’t have a single moment of peaceful rest, you hear me?!”

“Loud and clear!” Harry said and listened to the sound of her steps fading in the distance.

He turned to inspect the small room and noticed that the leaking sound he’d heard before seemed to be louder now, but there wasn’t a trace of water in sight. The room was, in fact, very empty except for a square wooden plaque lying against one of the walls. His stomach dropped. He didn’t necessarily expect to find the answer _here_ , but he’d certainly been hoping for something.

He let himself slide down the wall and sat on the floor, his hands dangling from the tops of his bent knees.

_Drip... Drip…_

That fucking sound. He looked around once more. Looked up. Nothing. He dragged himself across to the opposite wall and grabbed the wooden plaque, turning it over. The face of a woman with long, dark hair stared back at him. A single tear ran continuously down her face, leaving a wet track behind it. _Drip_. The tear splashed against some sort of metal chest that she was holding. He stared for a long time at her grey eyes, taking in the picture.

Harry took a shaky breath. “Hi?” he whispered.

There was no answer. She swiped a hand over the chest carefully, as if it were a precious treasure. It was just a square, metal box, really. Nothing special that Harry could see. He noticed a tiny engraving on the top, near one of the corners, but it was too faint to identify. He looked at her again. She wasn’t looking at him anymore; her eyes were fixated on the wall behind Harry. He spun, suddenly scared to find something behind him, but he was met with nothing but empty space.

He looked at her again. There was no frame around the portrait. It was just a wooden panel with rough edges. She turned to him then and gestured to the wall.

“What?” Harry asked. “What is it?”

She just kept alternating between looking at him, caressing the box, and looking at the wall. Harry got up, grabbed the candle from the floor and got close to the wall. “What is it?” he repeated and swiped his hand across it, quickly pulling it back at the painful feel of a jab. Oh, a nail. He went back to the portrait and knelt in front of it. “Do you want me to hang you?”

The woman nodded with such a hurt expression that it made Harry extraordinarily sad, but he also felt a sense of excitement at having begun to solve _a_ _puzzle_. Whatever it meant.

As soon as the portrait was on the wall, the tears stopped coming and she smiled shyly. “You’re welcome,” Harry said, smiling too. “I don’t suppose you know how I could get out of here now, do you? The door’s been, er… blocked.”

She took a moment to look at Harry, mindlessly touching the box. Then she smiled and lifted her eyebrows. The portrait started lifting to the side, revealing a hole in the wall that hadn’t been there before. It was small, but it would fit Harry if he was crawling. Seeing no other option, he took a breath and climbed inside.

As soon as he started moving forward, he noticed that the tunnel inclined upward and had some sort of steps carved into the material. It still wasn’t big enough for him to stand up, however, so he had to creep up in the darkness while wishing desperately to find a way out soon.

Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed already, but he was certain that he wouldn’t make it out in time to go to West Kensington. He cursed himself for his impulsiveness and kept moving endlessly upward. At this rate, he’d turn up on the freaking roof. His knees and hands hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding somewhere from the scratches. He felt the surface flatten suddenly, and shortly thereafter, he reached a wall. There was no door in front of him, so he laid down on his back in a bit of a panic to check the top side. His hands touched wood. “Thank fuck,” he exhaled and let his arms fall at his sides to rest them.

“ _Alohomora,_ ” he whispered, unsure of what could be lying behind the trapdoor. It opened smoothly, and with a bit of difficulty, he managed to get out.

Casting a Patronus to let Merryfold know he was alive and kicking, he turned to inspect the area. Dimly lit by the small portion of light coming through the window stood a four-poster bed with a vibrant green cover. A small mirror hung over a desk cramped with books and pieces of parchment. A tiny, green paper crane sat on top of a pocket watch. It was as if time had frozen still inside the room. The familiar pull reemerged, stronger this time, in Harry’s stomach—the same one he felt every time he entered the house.

He moved close to the wall near the bed. A few old pictures were stuck on it. A blond little boy, laughing and riding his broom; a young woman with long, straight black hair and a pristine complexion holding a baby; and one of Malfoy in his school uniform, this time older, playing some sort of board game with what Harry could only infer were other Slytherins in their common room.

His hand moved of his own accord to stroke Malfoy’s tiny face. He quickly pulled it back, horrified. Surely a side effect of the amount of time he was spending in the Manor, he thought. He walked purposefully as far away as he could from the images. It was so strange being here, seeing this _normal_ side of Malfoy. This human side. He’d been a child happy to just mount his broom, just like Harry. And he’d also been just a kid during the war, a scared kid. They had all been.

Where was all this compassion for Malfoy coming from? Hell, he’d also stepped on Harry’s nose and let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He’d been a kid, but not an innocent one, Harry reminded himself. _Oh, and were you?_ His treacherous mind provided.

He needed to get out of there. He trotted towards the door, but a glimmer in the corner of his eye made him stop. A silver object stuck out from under the bed. He got closer and, with trembling hands, lifted it to his face. He swiped his thumb over the little flourishes on the crest near the corner of the box.

The bed creaked as he sat on it.

“Harry, backup is here. Let me know where you are so we can come get you,” a tiny squirrel said in Merryfold’s powerful voice before dissipating.

Harry kept a tight grip on the box as he went for the door. He was pretty sure he was on the first floor, but it didn’t really matter one way or the other. They wouldn’t be able to clear the debris. His best option was to stay there until the house kicked him out. That could take ages, though, and he didn’t really want to spend all that time in Malfoy’s room. He couldn’t see much of the corridor; it was soundly blocked at both ends. He went inside again and sat on the bed, helplessly looking at the pictures. An idea popped in his mind.

Conjuring his own Patronus, he relayed a message: “I think I’m on the first floor, where the bedrooms are. Get me a broom; I’ll be by the window.” He watched it as it ran through the wall.

\--

“That was a brilliant idea, Harry!” Berrings was giving him little pats on the back that hurt like hell on his tender body.

Harry was measuring the severity of the cuts on his knee, Merryfold at his side, looking at him with a mix of apprehension and approval. There were four Aurors waiting a few meters away.

“Well,” Harry said. “I think we can call it a day. What time is it anyway?”

“Past three, Potter.” Merryfold informed him.

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Really? I might just make it to West Kensington, then!”

“Have you taken a blow to the head, or have you always been a reckless idiot?” she objected with an expression of disapproval.

“Look,” Harry started. There was no time for this. The more he could get done today, the faster he could find Malfoy. He put both hands on her shoulders and looked her right in the eyes. _Then_ he noticed. “Shit, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Berrings and Merryfold asked in unison.

“The-the box! The square metal box!” Harry said, searching the floor with his eyes.

“What metal box, my boy?” Berrings asked, before turning to address the others. “What’s he talking about?”

Harry looked at them in resignation. “Give me the broom, I need to go back.”

“Potter, didn’t you read the-“

“I know, I know, okay! The… the repellent or whatever. But if it let me out, maybe it’ll let me in again. I don’t know… I just need to find the box.”

“What box?” Berrings insisted.

But Harry had already spotted the broom and was walking toward it. As soon as he reached the bedroom window, he felt the air preventing him from going in as if a solid, invisible barrier was surrounding the house. Sitting on his broom, he rested a hand, and then his forehead, on the barrier. “Please…” he whispered. “I need to go in; it’s important.” He lifted his head and stared at the window. “Look, I’m not the bad guy here, I’m just trying to help.” He spoke as if the house was listening. He suspected it was. “Help _him_. Draco...” he added, the name still tasting strange coming from his mouth.

After a moment, he felt his hand slowly pass through the barrier. “Yes! Thanks!”

When he grabbed the box again, he thought for a minute before mounting the broom. “Er… House?” He said looking up. He felt like he needed to speak to the ceiling for some reason. “Or… Or Manor, if you prefer? I want to help… er… Draco. But I need to take this with me.” He lifted the box to the ceiling like it was an offering. “I’ll-I’ll give it back. I promise.” When he felt he was done, he hopped on his broom and went through the window. As he neared the grass outside, he felt the cold metal edges against his palm and decided Billy could wait until the next day.

\--

He wiped the foggy mirror, swiping his hand a few times. The shower had loosened his pained muscles from all the effort he’d done pushing against the walls in the cellar. He stared at the tired expression his blurred face reflected back at him. Tousled black locks fell over his brownish complexion, signalling the lack of a much needed haircut. The cabinet was still covered in steam as he opened it to find the Dittany. He removed the towel and started diligently applying it over his scratched knees, hands, and forearms. Afterward, he sat down on the bath’s edge, letting it set and wondering, yet again, how he’d ended up in this situation. The idea of Malfoy had been so absent from his life since the war had ended. He’d sort of erased his presence from his mind, vanished it like the real Malfoy had apparently vanished from the world. Harry felt like a teenager again, constantly on edge.

Undoubtedly, there was something at work at the Manor. He didn’t know what or how, but it was the only explanation for his out of place emotional outbursts and reactions. Merryfold had told him that the core was being kept alive somehow.

He got up and put some clean jeans on. Once in his room, he grabbed a random t-shirt from a pile on his reading chair. Sitting on his bed, he took the metal box from the Manor in his hands and scrutinised it closely. There was no visible lock, which was a good thing, since he didn’t have a key. He tried spelling it open, but none of the spells he knew worked. He made a mental note to ask Hermione and took a careful look at the crest. A skull rested on top, framed by flourishes on both sides. Under it, what looked like an armoured hand was swinging a sword. At the bottom, there were three ravens and then a banner underneath that read: _Toujours pur._

He fell back on the mattress, resting his head on his pillow and gripping the box to his chest. The crest looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He fell asleep like that, lightly stroking the cold metal surface. He was flying on his broom, Malfoy clenching him from behind. They were being chased by a violent flow of salty water coming from a metallic container. He turned to Malfoy and noticed, horrified, that he had no face. “Where are you!” Harry yelled over the sound of the wind slashing against his ears. “Just tell me!” They were rapidly falling now, and the water had started to catch up to them. It tasted like tears, and there was just so much of it. He was drowning, choking. He woke up violently coughing and sat up on the bed with a hand to his throat.

He went down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Perching against the counter, a hot mug between his hands, he glanced at the clock. It would be another hour or two before Ron and Hermione got home, and that was if they got out of the Ministry on time, which they almost never did. He gulped down the rest of his tea and went into the study.

_Home early. Please come when you’re finished with work._

_Harry_

He wrote two identical notes and went to find Ron’s owl Helix. He then grabbed the box from his room, set it on the centre of the study’s desk, and poured himself a glass of firewhiskey.

\--

Ron and Hermione came out of the Floo almost simultaneously one hour later. “What happened?” asked Hermione, taking off her robes while Ron dusted himself.

Harry was still sitting behind the desk, the firewhiskey bottle in front of him considerably emptier. “Did you find that Billy bloke?” asked Ron.

Harry sighed. “No, I’ll go tomorrow. But I need your help with this.” He sat up and pushed the box forward. They came closer to inspect it, and Harry told them all about what had happened in the cellar.

“Shit, mate. Are you alright?” Ron asked, concerned. He and Hermione had been exchanging glances throughout the conversation, and Harry was getting irritated despite knowing he had no right after calling them home from work early.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, looking at them. They both went quiet for a second. Hermione was holding the box between her hands, turning it nervously this way and that. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Ron said innocently.

“With… whatever you’re thinking! Don’t think I didn’t hear you the other night, whispering.” Harry prompted.

“Well, Harry, don’t get us wrong…” Hermione started. “But it’s just, you seem to be getting in your head again with this Malfoy thing. We just… we don’t want you to… you know. We know it’s hard for you and all, but he’s… he’s gone, isn’t he?”

“That’s ridiculous, I’m not getting in my head with anything, I’m working the case!” Harry replied defensively. “And what do you mean _again_?” he added in a baffled tone.

“We just think he’s been gone now… what? Five years? It’s unlikely he’ll come back; he obviously doesn’t want to...” Hermione said almost at the same time as Ron muttered, “You know, broodily pining at school…”

“I know, wait- I didn’t _broodily pine_ at… whatever,” he said, feeling the blood pool in his cheeks. “I know my chances are scarce, but I honestly think he could help the house. Anyway, I need to find a way to open that box. I tried spelling it open, but it doesn’t work; I think the key is in that crest.”

“Well, it’s the Black family crest, isn’t it? _Always pure_. Ugh…”

“It is?” Harry asked.

“Oh, honestly!” Hermione got up and went to the mantelpiece, pointing at a painting above it. “It’s _everywhere_ in this house. I really don’t know how you could’ve missed it.”

Ron looked at Harry apologetically.

“Maybe it’s enchanted to be opened by magical signature recognition or something like that,” he suggested. “Old family heirlooms and antiques sometimes tend to work that way. My uncle Bilius told me he once had this weird little mirror that’d been passed on through the family and it could only show the reflection of its rightful owner,” Ron provided.

Hermione was staring at him in awe. “That’s actually quite helpful, Ron!”

“I know,” he replied with a tiny smirk, laying back on the couch. His hands comfortably crossed over his stomach.

“Well, I’ll need to do some research, of course. I’ll go get the _Magical Properties of Wizarding Legacy_ and see if there’s anything there,” she said excitedly.

“I’m not sure how long the house will let me keep it, though,” Harry told them, looking at the box. “I practically had to beg to get it out, and I’m still not sure how I got away with it.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione inquired.

“It’s just... As far as we know, there’s something inside the house that makes it resist change or even improvement of any kind. We’re not sure, but before today no one could ever successfully take anything from it. Not a single object from inside, or even a sample of the residue. I’m still not sure how or why _I_ managed it,” Harry explained, slowly wrinkling his brow. His eyes never left the box.

“And so you just, uh... begged? To whom?” Ron asked, rapidly blinking.

“Er... the-the Manor? I‘m telling you, I don’t know why it worked or if _that_ was what worked. But the next thing I know, I’m out of the house with the chest in my hands!” Harry was looking at them now, desperately trying not to sound like a lunatic. There was something else he wasn’t telling them, but putting into words that overwhelming longing that invaded him whenever he went inside the house would only make it more real. Also, Harry wasn’t sure anymore if he was picking up that vibe from the house or if it was a feeling buried deep inside of himself that had somehow suddenly awakened. He didn’t want to find out either way.

“Interesting...” Hermione muttered. Her eyes looked unfocused and lost. The three of them went quiet for a while.

“Well, I’m going to fix us some tea,” Ron announced, breaking the spell. “And cheese toasties; I’m starving. Does anyone want some?”

“No, thanks,” Harry said, emptying what was left of the firewhiskey. He grabbed the box from the coffee table and sat down again, cradling it. He rubbed his thumb against the crest, feeling the texture of the skull, its open mouth smiling mockingly at him.

\--

Hermione yawned from where she was lying across the couch, book in hand and head resting atop a sleeping Ron. They had been at it for quite a few hours. Harry was reading through the reports for the third time in a vain attempt to find something new. Tilting his head back, he let out a heavy sigh. Not for the first time, he wondered how he’d gotten to this point. He needed to follow that lead on Malfoy tomorrow.

As he felt the exhaustion take him over, he glanced at Hermione, still reading under the poor light of a tiny candle. “You guys should go to bed.”

“Yeah…” she said, closing the book over her stomach and stretching her arms. “We’ll continue tomorrow night.”

“Of course,” Harry said with a tight smile. “Yeah, thanks.” His fingertips felt rough, pressing against the delicate skin of his eyelids.

A warm hand on his shoulder made him open his eyes. “We’ll figure it out, Harry. Just… hang in there.” A sleepy smile punctuating her words. He put his hand on top of Hermione’s and let the genuine, strong adoration he felt for her warm him up.

“I know. Now go to sleep.”

\--

Collapsing onto the bed, Harry dropped the box, and it bounced softly next to him. He just hoped that tomorrow would be a better day—a day of answers. With a soft brush of his fingers over the engraved metal, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

Harry had felt nervous countless times during his short but thoroughly agitated existence. He’d felt on edge most of his teenage years, constantly hunting or being hunted. And even then, he’d come to realise that before that, as a child, he’d never experienced a true sense of calm and tranquillity. It was an unnerving feeling by itself, this idea of being permanently in danger, always on the verge of something awful happening. But he’d also learned to pull through it, to coexist with the knowledge that that was the hand he’d been dealt. And time taught him, if nothing else, to know when to expect those feelings and how to tame them—to own the fear and channel the tension. That was the lesson that, more than any other, allowed him to do his job and manage the grief and emptiness the War had left behind, some times better than others.

Owning a situation didn’t mean control, though. There were many sides to every problem, and there was never a unique or correct answer. There was only the best that you could do with what you’d been given. And even the best sometimes didn’t work out; at times, even that turned out to be a road toward making things worse. There wasn’t a single thing a human being could control on its own. That didn’t mean he wasn’t about to try, of course—because trying was the only way to the truth. And Harry needed to know the truth behind so many things right now. He was craving answers like a hungry wolf sniffing the trail to its prey.

He looked like one too, he thought, staring at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror as he discarded a shirt and grabbed the first one he’d tried on again. His chest, randomly punctuated by scattered scars; his dishevelled black hair that met his 5 o’clock shadow on the sides of his tired face; his green eyes, vivid over dark bags and blurry behind rounded glasses. He closed the door abruptly and started buttoning his shirt. Today, he was getting answers.

\--

He apparated into a narrow passage behind a car park. Walking towards the street, he noticed the area was mostly residential. Leafless trees lined blocks of brick flats. He turned left down a street called Sun Road. Pretty ironic, given how brisk the weather was becoming. It was after nine, but thick, grey clouds were blocking out the sun. The harsh wind swept the fallen leaves from the pavement, making them dance in tiny swirls.

He had sent Merryfold an owl, telling her to meet him at the Manor at noon. That left him with a few hours to search for the boutique, which was becoming quite a challenge in face of the lack of shops in the area. Finally, he reached a small bakery. A sign on the canopy read “Tart in the Sky” making him snort loudly. The smell coming out of it was mouth-watering, though, so he went in with the excuse of asking for directions.

The swaying of the door made a tinkling bell ring out, announcing the arrival of a new customer, and a woman came out through the back door of the shop, cleaning her hands with a rag. A few strands of grey hair had loosened from a tight bun, falling messily over her aged face. Harry was staring intently at the countless pastries and types of bread overrunning the counters, filling the shop with a warm, delicious scent. A friendly smile pulled at the wrinkled skin on her face as she watched him. “Hello, love. Welcome! What can I do for you?” she greeted in a northern accent.

“Hi,” Harry turned to her, “I’m... actually I have no money with me, sorry.” He inwardly scolded his past self for skipping breakfast. “But I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for a friend; he works in a fashion boutique around here somewhere.”

“Oh, that’s all right, love. Does he? Well, let’s see...” She rested her chin on one hand.

“I’m just er... new to the neighbourhood,” Harry felt the need to fill in the silence.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t think of any boutiques ‘round here... Oh! I know. I’ll be back in a jiffy!” She said and went through the back door again.

Harry was left standing before the pastries again; his stomach rumbled. He’d just have to find another shop, then. If this didn’t work out, he would end up having to go to the club again and hope Billy would miraculously turn up there. It wasn’t a fun prospect to think about sober, though. If he could only remember the name of the magazine... But it was pointless, he’d been too hammered and too distracted to pay any kind of attention to it.

“Here it is!” the lady said, handing him a tattered brochure. “There’s a list of all the shops ‘round here,” she smiled kindly at him.

Bold, rounded letters read “ _The Essential Guide to West Kensington: 1997 edition_ ” on the worn out cover. He opened it. There was a small map inside, with references to shops, restaurants, parks, and some other places to visit. Even if the shop wasn’t listed there, a map would be quite useful.

“Oh, I guess it might be a wee bit outdated, but most shops have been around here for a long time,” she explained. “I’m sure you’ll find him, lovey.”

Harry looked at her and smiled gratefully. “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks a lot, you’re a lifesaver. What time do you close so I can drop by and return it?”

“Oh, dear, you can keep it! What would this old hag need it for?” She chuckled, gesturing with her hand.

Harry kept smiling, unsure whether to laugh with her in agreement or not. “Ok, then. Well... I’d better get going. Thanks!” He said heading towards the door.

“Wait, lovey! You can have this too.” Harry turned and saw her taking a rock cake from a pile on the shelf behind her, putting it into a paper bag. “On the house,” she said, handing it to him.

“Oh…! Thanks. Thank you so much.” His stomach made a noise in anticipation, and Harry left the shop with a furious blush creeping up his neck.

\--

As it turned out, there were a total of two boutiques in West Kensington. At least in 1997 there had been. Harry munched on the rock cake, sitting on a bench under a willow, wondering which one would be more convenient to start with. According to the little map, _Bend the Trend_ was two blocks away from something that looked like a small back alley, which was convenient for apparating. If that one didn’t work out, he could then walk to _Destiny Boutique_.

A row of tiny shops came into view as he crossed the pebbled street from the back alley. Some were flanked by big pots with small trees, and one even had a few tables outside, not that anyone would sit there with the harsh weather. Still, it made for a nice view, warming the city landscape. He spotted the boutique, highlighted by its striped canopy in black and white. The name of the shop was plotted against the front window. Behind it, a naked mannequin was bent in a strange pose in front of a white background. Harry rang the bell.

A woman came to the door. She seemed just a bit older than Harry. Her striking green eyes contrasted with her dark complexion. “Hello? Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, swaying her long, braided hair. Harry noticed the purple tips matched her outfit.

“Er... Hi. No,-”

“Sorry, mornings are appointment only, we open the shop to the public during the afternoon,” she replied, closing the door. Harry stuck a hand to hold it open.

“Sorry, I understand. But I’m just looking for a friend that works here. Billy?”

“Everything alright, Mag?” Came a voice from the back.

The woman turned her head, still holding the door almost closed, “Someone’s looking for you, Billy!” She then turned to look at Harry with a disapproving look. “A... _friend_.”

Billy came to the door instantly. “Crap, I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said looking at Harry, surprised. “I’ll take care of it, can I go on an early break?”

“Five minutes. And stop handing out the address to the shop,” she hissed. “Don’t you have a flat to conduct your personal business?” She walked off, offended.

Billy took Harry by the arm and made him cross the street, guiding him to a bench on a bus stop.

“Shit, sorry!” said Harry, “I didn’t get you into trouble, did I?”

“Harry! I’m- How did you find me? Don’t worry ‘bout Maggie, she’s all cuddles under that stiff exterior.” Billy laughed off the situation. “Is everything all right, mate?”

“Look, I’ll just get to the point. Er... the other night, when we uh… Well, there was a magazine on your coffee table. I was looking through it,” he started to explain, feeling utterly stupid almost instantly.

“Yeah...?” Billy urged.

“Well, I need it,” Harry said simply. He could not even begin to figure out how the hell he could explain everything sensibly. It all sounded a bit nuts said out loud.

“You came to the shop because... you want to read one of my magazines?” Billy asked, baffled. “That’s a fucking weird excuse to get laid. Not that you need one, Harry!” he clarified, smirking.

“Look, I _know_ it sounds ridiculous, but it’s work related. I think I saw something... Anyway, I just need to borrow it; I’ll give it back, I promise.” Harry explained, letting the comment slide.

“Mate,” Billy said, “I have no idea what you’re on about, but I’ll give it to you as a token of the precious time we spent together. I honestly don’t care at all.”

“Thanks, Billy. I appreciate it.”

“Sure. Wanna meet at the club tonight? We can go back to mine and you can check it out all... night... long,” he said seductively, getting closer to Harry. And Merlin knew Harry was tempted, but the need to find Malfoy had taken up a large chunk of his brain.

“Er... raincheck?” Harry said. “What time do you finish work? I’ll pick you up.”

Billy looked a bit disappointed. “We close at five.”

“Good, I’ll be here then,” Harry confirmed.

Billy got up, “Right. Well, see you later, then. I gotta get back or Maggie’s gonna have my head on a platter.”

“Thanks again!” Harry said, waving from the bus stop as he watched Billy cross the street.

\--

Merryfold was standing by the gate when Harry arrived at the Manor.

“Any luck with the Malfoy boy?” she asked in way of a greeting.

“Not yet; I’ll have more information tonight.” He hadn’t given her many details as to who Billy was or _how_ he’d found the magazine.

“Tsk, too bad. Shall we?” She gestured towards the long road leading to the house. They started walking, shoulder to shoulder. “You know, Potter... It was very brave what you did yesterday. _Very_ _reckless_ , yes. But also very brave. I’m not sure I’d have managed by myself like you did.”

Harry felt something warm settling inside him. “Well, I’ll admit I’m a bit impulsive at times, but I wasn’t by myself at all,” he answered with his head toward the grass “ _You_ were there, even after what you told me about your sister... I reckon you were the brave one.”

Merryfold went quiet, and Harry felt her shoulders tense beside him. He took a quick glance and noticed she was blushing. He smiled at his shoes as they kept walking. The weather had settled a bit, and a cool breeze was cleaning the air.

As soon as they opened the door to the Manor, a loud crashing noise broke out from the East wing. They looked at each other and quickly pulled out their wands as they approached the area.

“-STER WON’T BE HAPPY ABOUT THIS, MASTER WILL BE SAD. AND WHEN THE MASTER FINDS THE HOUSE, HAWNT WILL MAKE HIM CRY!” The backrest of a chair went flying out the wing’s entrance as the poltergeist kept on singing in an out of tune, screeching voice.

Harry and Merryfold were standing in front of the corridor. “He’s never been this agitated before; what do you think?” she asked him.

“-FINDS THE HOUSE LIKE THIS-OOOHH! INVADERS HAVE COME TO PLAY!” The poltergeist floated towards them, swinging a heavy chain.

“ _Expulso!_ ” Harry shouted as the chain went flying from its hands. “Merryfold, open the closet door!”

“NO CLOSET FOR HAWNT! NO CLOSET FOR HAWNT!” he started chanting.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “We’re not here to play, Hawnt. _Captus!_ ”

The poltergeist moved swiftly to the right, avoiding the curse, laughing hysterically. He then collected the chain from the floor and, with a heavy swing, struck Harry on the face. He fell backwards to the floor. Lifting a hand to his cheek, he noticed that there was blood on his face. As Hawnt approached Merryfold, turning his back on Harry, he yelled “ _Incarcerous_!” He knew it wouldn’t do much, but at least it would buy them time. While the chain twisted itself around the poltergeist, Merryfold managed to push the creature inside the closet. Harry went quickly next to her, casting a neutralisation spell, keeping it from escaping for at least a few hours.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re bleeding, Potter,” she pointed out.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch.”

“It’ll bruise,” she remarked, lifting her wand and casting a healing spell. It didn’t do much for the bruise, but at least stopped the bleeding.

Harry touched his cheek idly. “Thanks,” he repeated.

The corridor was in an even worse state than the last time they’d been here. It looked as if some of the debris that had been leading from the stairs to the first floor had been transported to the East wing. Which was impossible, Harry thought.

“Merlin’s balls in a bag...!” exclaimed Merryfold. “Potter, look!”

In the middle of the long row of battered portraits, a woman with black hair and a saddened expression was staring at them. Harry automatically recognised her.

“She was in the cellar,” he explained. “The portrait was lying on the floor; I hung her yesterday. That’s how I got out, actually.”

“Wait, what?” Merryfold was staring at him with incredulous eyes.

“Well, I mean, there was a nail on the wall and she seemed eager to-“

“No, Potter. Look at her! If she’s here now, it means the portrait is still on the wall down there! She stayed! Can’t you see? It didn’t go back! The change survived the night! How did you do it?” She was talking fast, with an undertone of sheer excitement.

“I-I don’t know. I think I just... wanted to help? I don’t know,” he repeated. Harry hadn’t thought about that. How had he done it indeed? And _why_ did it stay? It was quite intriguing. Was the house finally tired of resisting? It had let him take the metal chest after all… _Oh._ An idea popped into his mind all of a sudden.

“Wait here,” he told Merryfold. He approached the woman in the portrait. “Hey again,” he smiled at her. She returned a shy smile, the box firmly clutched between her hands.

“You know... I have one just like yours,” Harry pointed at the metal box. “But I can’t figure out how to open it... Can you show me?”

The woman stared at him for a moment, looking deep in thought. She stared into Harry’s eyes, and he tried to keep a trustworthy expression, but he couldn’t hide how anxious and eager he was. “Please... I really, really need to open it,” he begged as best as he could.

She took a deep breath and lifted the box. With a polished nail, she dragged the tiny sword from the armed hand and retrieved it. The box opened smoothly. Harry spun around excitedly with a gigantic smile on his face.

“What on earth are you on about, Potter?” Merryfold asked from behind.

“I’ve got it!” he turned to the portrait. “Thanks so much, you’re brilliant! I could kiss you!” He told her, making the woman blush as she closed the box, pressing the sword back inside.

“I need to go home.”

“Again?!” Merryfold said. “Well, I guess _someone_ around here has to fill in the reports,” she huffed.

“Catriella,” Harry grabbed her by the shoulders. “I promise when this is over, dinner’s on me.”

“Careful, Potter,” she lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve got my limits; don’t overstay your welcome.”

He kept grinning stupidly, still in awe of his recent discovery. “You’re great! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

\--

The sun was up and shining in the sky as he walked towards the gate. There was no trace of the storm that had been misleadingly foreshadowed by the brisk weather of the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place just after four, which meant he had almost an hour to inspect the box's contents before he had to go back to West Kensington to pick Billy up. He hurried up the stairs without taking his shoes or robes off and almost threw himself onto the bed to grab the box. He felt as eager and excited as he’d felt during his first Christmas morning at Hogwarts. The absurdity of it all didn’t escape him, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling that he was about to discover something crucial to the case—something that tied all the dots together and shed some light on the tangled mystery that Malfoy Manor had become.

He had to make several attempts to drag the little sword out with his short fingernail, but eventually, it started to give in. With one last try, the sword fully loosened and he took it out, setting it on the nightstand without taking his eyes from the lid. The box opened easily, swiftly, very much like the one on the portrait. As he cradled it with trembling hands, his smile began to vanish from his face. He stared at the dirty piece of black cloth laying inside for a few minutes, letting a sense of anger and frustration invade each and every molecule in his body, quickly replacing the excitement he’d felt just seconds ago. He felt his eyes fill with tears of exhaustion and confusion as he unrolled a dirty tie, its lower edge a bit charred.

He’d been hoping for so much more.

He hadn’t realised until that moment just how many expectations he’d had. Hope was something that didn’t come easily to Harry; he mostly just tried to avoid thinking of the future altogether. He never let himself get so entangled in a case that he’d _hope_ for a certain outcome. He stuck to the evidence—to the analytic side of it—and worked it from there based on probability and sheer willpower. He just wasn’t a hopeful person, and he had so many very good reasons to keep it that way. So just why on earth had he gotten so carried away as to put so much emotion on a damned box? What was he expecting to find inside? It was a cursed item, from a cursed house, from a cursed family. It had a stupid crest with an awful motto, and what else could it bear than a stupidly awful, dirty, freaking useless _tie_ inside?

“Agh!” Harry exhaled angrily as he watched the box crash against the wall opposite his bed, the tie landing messily on the ground next to it.

He got up from bed, took off his robes, grabbed his leather jacket, and apparated into West Kensington.

\--

It was just half past four when he arrived at the bus stop in front of _Bend the Trend_. He had at least half an hour to kill—if Billy was on time. The day had cleared enough that it was still cold but bearable outside. He crossed towards the little coffee shop with the tables outside, taking in the pots with the small trees and the pebbled street and the freaking canopy. This exact morning he’d thought of the place as a pleasant view that warmed the city landscape. _What a pile of rubbish_ , his brain provided now, taking a seat at a single wooden table with a striped, green and white parasol.

His pint was almost empty by the time he saw Billy come out of the shop. He felt considerably looser and more relaxed now.

They walked to the tube and made small talk all the way to Covent Garden. Well, Billy did; Harry mostly listened and nodded. This time, when they exited the station, Harry tried to pay a little more attention to where they were headed. They reached a small apartment building on Maiden Ln. A faint memory of the ornate front briefly crossed Harry’s mind.

The door closed firmly behind Billy, and Harry was on him in an instant, pushing him against the nearest wall and kissing him intensely. Billy was still holding his keys, which jangled softly as he lifted his hand to grab Harry from the back of the neck.

“Hey... Hi,” he said, breaking the kiss, still a hand firmly set on Harry’s nape. “Thought you’d asked for a raincheck.”

“Changed my mind,” panted Harry, and moved his arms from Billy’s waist to lift the hem of his jumper. “Off,” he said, pulling at it, and dipped in to meet his mouth.

Billy chuckled between kisses and complied, throwing the keys in a bowl on a little table and letting Harry undress him. Harry took a moment to take him in then. Billy was beautiful. All soft skin, a slight tan that complimented his long brown hair. Lifting a hand, he removed the hairband that tied the little bun on top and let his fingers stroke the now-loose hair down. Billy was pliant under him, watching and waiting. With each stroke of hair, he pushed his hips forward, creating a delicious friction. Harry was panting hot breaths over Billy’s face and his hand had progressively gone from stroking to clutching the hair on Billy’s nape tightly, who had tilted back his head and shut his eyes in pleasure. Harry licked a stripe from his neck to his jaw and bit him just under the ear.

“Ah...” Billy gasped, placing a hand on Harry’s ass to increase the pressure.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Harry said into Billy’s neck, his head resting on it, just breathing his scent and desperately moving his hips.

“Wanna... Ah, wanna move to the bed?” Billy managed.

Harry lifted his face then, and looking straight into Billy’s hazel eyes, he used his free hand to undo both their flies. “Not really,” he smirked.

Billy grinned and let himself slide down the wall.

\--

It was already dark outside when Billy suggested a drink and invited Harry to wait in his living room. As Harry sat on the couch, Billy came out of the small kitchen with two beers. “This ok?” He asked, handing one to Harry.

“Sure,” he replied, studying the pile of magazines.

“Feel free to check them out, mate. Not sure which one you were talking about,” he offered, noticing Harry’s interested gaze.

Harry picked up the first two. He skimmed through the first one and discarded it, quickly opening the other one. A bunch of black and white pictures of various male models triggered a pang of recognition.

His heartbeat sped up as his trembling hand turned the pages one by one. He swallowed loudly. “I think this is it,” he whispered without lifting his eyes from the magazine.

“Cool!” Billy exclaimed, clueless of Harry’s inner turmoil.

He saw the picture before he could fully turn the page and his grasp tightened, crumbling the edges of the paper. Fuck, it _was_ Malfoy after all. “Shit…” he exhaled.

“You found it? Let me see!” Billy said, looking at the page Harry was staring at. “Oohh… Which one is it?”

Harry looked at Malfoy in awe. His drunk memory didn’t do him justice at all. He looked stunning. All pale skin, revealed by the way his flowing white shirt draped off his shoulder, red painted lips, and wet, blond hair falling messily over his forehead. He was wearing a pink shadow that made his grey eyes pop while giving off a very strong, sensual vibe. Harry’s insides churned uncomfortably.

He pointed at Malfoy. “Him.”

“Blimey! He can get me into trouble any time if you know what I mean…” Billy said.

“Yeah…” Harry replied, lost in thought. “Yeah, I think I’ve gotta go now.” He stood up, “can I take this?”

Billy seemed briefly taken aback, but quickly dismissed the reaction with a disinterested hand gesture as he said, “Sure, sure. Take it!”

“Cool, thanks.” Harry left his untouched beer on the coffee table and put his jacket on, rolling the magazine securely in a pocket inside.

Billy walked him to the door. “Will you be at the club this weekend?” he asked, holding the door open.

“Er…” Harry hesitated, watching him. “Sure, I guess.”

“Cool, cool,” Billy said in a strange tone, and for a second Harry thought he was going to kiss him, so he quickly took a step into the hallway and walked towards the stairs without looking back.

\--

“Harry! Is that you?” Hermione’s voice called from the study the moment he arrived at Grimmauld. He took the magazine from his jacket before hanging it on the rack next to the door, then hurried towards the study.

Hermione was sitting behind the desk, resting her chin on one hand, the copy of _Magical Properties of Wizarding Legacy_ opened in front of her.

“Hey,” Harry said, rounding the desk and placing a kiss on the top of her head. “All right?”

“Been drinking?” she asked, looking at him with concern.

“No. Well, a bit. Ron?”

“Sleeping. He was exhausted after work. It’s almost nine, you know? I’ve been reading-“

Harry placed the magazine on the desk, interrupting her.

“Been at Billy’s,” he explained.

“Oh…? Oh!” She looked at the magazine. “Is that the one?”

“Yeah.” He collapsed on the sofa. “Page 42.”

Hermione turned the pages quickly. “Oh my God… Oh my _God…_! What the fuck, Harry! How…”

“Ugh, I know. It’s awful.”

“He looks amazing,” she replied in awe.

“Exactly. Awful,” Harry said, tipping his head back.

“He looks so different…” She kept staring at the picture.

“We need to trace the agency. Or the photographer,” Harry muttered from his spot on the couch.

“Yeah… yeah, we’ll have to. Speaking of trace, I’ve been doing some research. You know, about the box? And I found this chapter here, it talks abou-“

“Forget about it. I figured it out today,” he said, sitting up straight. “It’s a dead end. Just a dirty old rag inside.”

“You did? How?” She asked, perplexed.

“Just a stupid mechanism. A portrait in the Manor showed me. Nevermind.”

“I’d like to see it anyway; may I?”

“Sure. Why not,” Harry huffed and got up miserably.

\--

The box was lying face down, open on the floor where it had fallen. He knelt down to grab it, picking up the tie first. When he lifted the lid, a folded piece of paper was laying under it. He hadn’t seen the paper earlier, but he supposed it would’ve been possible to miss it in the midst of his rage fit. He picked it up and went to his nightstand to fetch the little sword.

He put the tie inside the box and closed it like he’d seen the lady on the portrait do, pushing the stick through the hand to lock it. He then unfolded the paper. To his amazement, his own eyes stared at him from a very old, very stupid photo. The words “Undesirable N°1” had been ripped off the top of the paper, leaving just his face and his name underneath.

Something thick was obstructing his throat, he rested his weight against the closest wall while he kept looking at his younger self. His body acted of its own accord when it dropped to a crouch, and Harry realized he was laughing uncontrollably.

He clutched his head with his free hand.

“What the fuck, Malfoy…” he spat in between breaths to no one in particular.

He took another look at the picture, utterly baffled. This was getting weirder by the minute.

Well, maybe Hermione could help him make some sense of all of this.

\--

“So you just take the sword out?” Ron asked for the third time. Harry had apparently woken him up during his fit of insanity.

“I mean yeah, there’s really no other secret to it,” Harry explained. Also, for the third time.

“But it’s so weird… If it is a pureblood family heirloom, it makes no sense at all that it should open under Muggle logic,” he replied.

“Unless,” Hermione said, “its contents are meant to be hidden from Wizards.”

“That makes no sense,” Ron replied, “any protective spell would work better than this tiny lock.”

“Yeah, but that’s exactly the line of thought a Wizard or Witch would go for. Nobody would expect it to be a Muggle contraption. Not even Harry, who tried spelling it open, which obviously didn’t work,” she finished, looking at him.

“No, you’re right. It didn’t even cross my mind. It was a wasted effort, anyway. All it had was that rumpled tie and…” he swallowed, “and this.” He took the folded paper from his jeans’ back pocket and handed it to them.

“Blimey! That’s you, Harry!” Ron exclaimed.

“I haven’t seen one of these posters in years!” Hermione said.

“Yeah, I’m not— Guys, I’m _so_ confused… What does it all _mean_?”

Hermione went quiet. She looked lost in thought, toying idly with the charred fabric of the tie. “Hmm… I’m not sure…” she muttered.

Ron and Harry exchanged a look. “Let’s leave her to do her thing…” Ron whispered. “How did it go with that Billy guy?”

Harry grabbed the magazine and explained to him, quietly, what had happened. Approximately. He might have left one or two definitely unrelated details out.

They sat down on the couch, quill and parchment in hand, and started retrieving information from the magazine. After a while, they had come up with a thorough list of editors, photographers, directors, and writers with their contact information. He’d take it to Berrings first thing in the morning and see if they could start the investigation right away.

When he went to bed that night, feeling a little more together despite the rollercoaster of a day he’d had, Hermione knocked on his door.

“Come in,” Harry replied.

“Harry, sorry.” She came into the room in her nightgown, the metal box in her hand.

“I think you should have this,” she said, placing the box on his nightstand.

“Thanks. I’ll take it back to the house tomorrow.”

“No, Harry. I think _you_ should have this,” she repeated, stressing the ‘you’.

“What? Why?” Harry asked, looking at the box.

“Hmm… just— please keep it. Indulge me?” She smiled at him.

“You make no sense ‘Mione, I need some sense… Ugh, fine. Fine! I’ll keep it. But you owe me an explanation,” he admonished.

“I know. Later,” she said. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night.”

The box sat on the nightstand as she closed the door. In the silence of the night, its presence was loud. Like an elephant stomping around the room. Harry turned on his side and let the moonlight shine on it through the window. He found solace in its silver edges. As he listened to his own heart beating rhythmically, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days went by in a rush. Half of his time was spent at the Ministry, tracking down the people from the magazine and writing reports, and the other half of the day he continued to work on the house, which was proving to be a more demanding task than they’d expected. The day after the poltergeist outburst, Merryfold and Harry had stepped into the foyer to find, to their complete surprise, the backrest of the chair the creature had thrown at them still lying on the floor, near the corridor entrance. The house was acting out and going crazy, but little things like the chair and the portrait Harry had put on the wall were a sign of some sort of fundamental change to the logic they’d all been basing their work upon. It seemed that for a reason they had yet to figure out, the house had stopped its futile resistance fit, and begun accepting minor changes to its perpetually knocked down state. Essential proof of that was the presence of the metal box still sitting on Harry’s nightstand. Taking advantage of the unexpected outcome, they’d started, once again, to clear the debris to the first floor.

By Friday, Harry was completely worn out. He’d been restlessly working all week, with the added stress of pursuing the Malfoy lead. On the upside, their theory of the house seemingly giving up on preventing any changes seemed to have been correct; they’d successfully managed to clear a path to the first floor. On the other hand, they hadn’t made much progress regarding the magazine. They found out it mostly hired freelancers, and even though Harry had managed to get in contact with a few of the editors, apparently the issue was too old, and they were adamant about not giving out information. Harry felt the helplessness of reaching another dead end deep in his bones. He was getting so frustrated about this whole thing. Malfoy was alive; he couldn’t have just simply vanished. They were back at square one, only now the house was apparently going insane and Harry had that stupid magazine picture branded in his brain forever.

Pretty much done with every aspect of the case, Harry felt in desperate need of a shower and a long night of uninterrupted sleep. The club had been a much better prospect than being left alone with his thoughts all night, though. Two guys groping each other came tumbling into the restroom. He checked himself one last time in the mirror, flattened his shirt with a loud exhale, and went out onto the dance floor.

\--

Sweat crept down Billy’s chest as he danced, shirt discarded, to a song Harry thought was very awful and very loud. He passed by him and reached the bar, sitting on a stool and ordering another whiskey. He took a sip, letting the strong flavour wash his tiredness away as he watched a man approach Billy from afar. They danced close together for a while, then Billy looked at Harry with a mischievous expression and turned to whisper something in the guy’s ear. With his eyes set on them, Harry tipped his head back and emptied the glass.

Jake was a few inches taller than Harry, a tight sleeveless shirt enhanced his pale shoulders, and the firm muscles of his arms twitched when Harry lifted the garment to graze lightly over the skin under his navel.

“Mm…” Jake moaned into Billy’s mouth, who was comfortably pressing Harry in between them. He lifted his head, licking a wet stripe along Jake’s neck that ended on Billy’s swollen mouth.

“Yeah…” one of them whispered. The loud beat of the music led the rhythm in which their bodies touched. Harry felt a shiver down his spine as Jake grasped his hair tightly, his other hand finding his hard nipple through his shirt.

“Fuck,” Harry exhaled in between kisses. The air of their quick breaths was creating a thick cloud of heat over their faces, fogging Harry’s glasses. “We should get out of here.”

A hand cupped his ass and he couldn’t have told whose it was. All that he knew was that right there, in that electric moment, sandwiched between two beautiful guys, he wasn’t thinking about the Manor, Malfoy, or that dull pain that’d taken uncomfortable residence in his stomach since he’d started working on the case.

\--

“You know, I think tracking down Muggles would be so much easier if the Ministry could finally come to their senses and start training their employees on basic computer skills,” Hermione tells them over breakfast Saturday morning. “I mean, just imagine how much _easier_ it could be to find those photographers on the _Internet_!”

“I don’t think that many people can fit inside an _Internet_ , ‘Mione. It’s just not possible for Muggles; they don’t have extension charms.”

“Ron, please, don’t play silly. I’m serious about this; I’ve been working on a bill they just can’t veto. We can’t keep ignoring Muggle technology forever,” she said indignantly.

“But we have our own technology! I just don’t see how theirs is better.”

“It’s not about it being better, it’s about it being different! And I’m not suggesting throwing eons of history out the window, just having a department in the Ministry, a few people who are specifically trained to use it. We could really profit from it, and it wouldn’t be a dent in the budget, you know?”

Harry was perched against the counter stirring a cup of strong coffee, absent-mindedly listening to the conversation. He vaguely thought about whether he could ask Billy to help him find Malfoy on the computer. He was pretty sure he must have one.

“You coming to lunch tomorrow, mate?” Ron asked him. “Mum’s been asking about you.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Good, I’ll let her know.”

Maybe Sunday roast could be a nice distraction.

\--

The first week after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had wanted to disappear. To erase his existence from earth. The fighting was over, and it had taken a toll on all of them, but the days after had somehow felt worse, empty. They were all in limbo, in a void that marked the end of the Voldemort era, but not quite the dawn of a new one. There was just _so much_ to do, so many funeral arrangements to tend to, walls to rebuild, people to heal, Death Eaters to prosecute, and Harry felt overwhelmed and just plain out of energy to deal with any of it. Ron and Hermione had gone to stay at the Burrow temporarily, and Harry had stayed behind, shut inside a grieving Grimmauld Place; with no Hedwig, no Kreacher to take care or be taken care of. He spent the days in Sirius’ room, idly flipping the pages of the photo album Hagrid had given to him so many years ago, finding comfort in bottle after bottle of the first thing he could get his hands on lying around the battered house.

The Ministry’s pleas didn’t take long to start coming. At first, it was just the odd owl or two inviting him to a meeting or to testify at a trial. He never replied. He didn’t know what he could possibly contribute in his state. Hadn’t Harry Potter done enough? Hadn’t all of them done enough for this rotten joke of a system they had going on? For this broken world? Why was the need to return to normal so pressing when normal was what had led them there? But the unavoidable certainty of knowing that change was the answer scared him to death, because change in itself was terrifying. So when—after a few months went by with no reply from Harry—they began trying to reach him through the Floo, Harry, still shut down and distanced from the world, knew he needed to be gone. There was nothing for him there anymore. His fight was over. And what was his worth outside the battlefield? He hated himself for craving it, and he hated himself for feeling so useless without the drive of being in danger.

That was when, as if they had smelled Harry’s despair all the way from the Burrow, Ron and Hermione decided to move in with him. It was an unspoken and subtle process that one day found the three of them having all of their meals together. By the time Harry had made up his mind to get away, he realised he just wouldn’t be able to leave his friends behind. Hermione was working hard those days on new projects and legislations to improve the post-war mess of a world, and Ron… well, he was trying to convince Harry to try for the Aurors with all the subtlety and tact of a rock to the face.

Harry would be lying around in the study, doing his usual routine of drink-nap-drink, and Ron would burst in waving a set of new, pristine Auror robes around, saying “Mate, look what I just found in the, er, basement; you _need_ to try this on! I think they’re just your size!” Or he would ask him out for drinks and take them to a pub just a few blocks from where the Auror training camp was. “You know, I think there are Auror tryouts today, interesting stuff, really,” he would say, looking sideways and tapping his fingers nervously on the table.

Even though Harry was reluctant at first, he eventually gave in to Ron’s insistence. At least that line of work would give him the adrenaline rush he’d seemed to be craving. He just hoped that would be enough to get him through the years. The future was blurrier than ever, no horizon in sight, not even a compass to show him the way. He simply didn’t know what he was after anymore.

\--

Molly and Arthur welcomed Harry with open arms, joyous as ever to finally get to see him. He knew he owed them so much, and maybe that—the untainted memories of all that he’d lived at the Burrow—was why he avoided going there too often. He just didn’t want another place where he would face worried expressions and hear whispered words behind his back. He didn’t want to carry his own sadness around this place that had given him so much.

“My dear boy, just look at you!” Molly said. Tearing up in a motherly fashion, she held Harry’s face between her gentle hands. “We’ve missed you, dear. Come on in, everyone’s inside, go on.”

“Hello, lad. Good to see ya!” Arthur greeted next to her.

Harry smiled tenderly at them. He knew Sundays meant getting to see their children, all moved out as the years went by. Last one to go was George, but he, too, had eventually moved on. It was difficult to see so many familiar faces, so many lives starting over, planning their futures, working towards something new, while Harry was so caught up in the past and letting time slide like sand through hesitant fingers, endlessly waiting and fearing the inevitable change the future surely would bring—the last grain to rest solidly on his palm as he closed the fist and accepted his fate. He schooled his expression to something friendlier and went into the living room where all of the family was merrily chattering. At least he could be happy for them.

“Harry!” Ginny greeted him as he entered the kitchen. She threw herself at him, giving him a tight hug.

“Hey, Gin. How’ve you been? How’re Leda and the twins?”

“Oh, just peachy. The little terrors are just learning to fly on their toy brooms. You should see the house,” she said, grinning proudly; her eyes shining dreamily, a telling sign of her happiness. Ginny had married the seeker from a Brazilian team, and had moved over there where they had two toddlers.

“That’s good, I’m glad,” Harry replied, smiling.

“When are you going to come visit? You _need_ to see the beaches down there! It’s just dreamy...” she sighed.

Harry fell into easy conversation with her, letting Ginny do most of the talking. She was in love with Brazil, and he was happy to see her so excited. Then George arrived, and the roast was set on the table. They all sat down, passing stuff around, helping each other to the delicious food and drinks.

Feeling like a spectator, Harry watched them talk and eat. He listened to the sound of their laughter and tried to drink it all in, to store it for later moments, like a comfort movie.

\--

On Monday, Harry turned up at the Manor’s gates a few minutes later than usual. He walked alone down the long path across the grounds and as it came into view, he watched, petrified, as Merryfold dragged Draco Malfoy’s rigid body toward the steps outside the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy a double post Thursday because this one is a bit shorter.

Harry was still standing at the end of the entrance path, a few meters away from the house, when Berrings and a team of Aurors approached him from behind.

“Harry, lad! Blimey, seems we’re in luck, eh? Come on, let’s get that bastard in for interrogation.” He motioned for Harry to follow him.

Harry was frozen on the spot. “What…?” he muttered. Berrings didn’t hear him though; he was already shaking Merryfold’s hand. A cold shiver broke Harry from his stupor. “What!” he repeated as he watched in complete terror how they levitated Malfoy’s limp body toward him, his heartbeat impossibly fast. A thought occurred to him then, and he felt the blood drain from his face. Was Malfoy dead? What the _fuck_. Was he actually dead? _What_? He felt agitated, breathing coming hard. Fear invaded him. Draco Malfoy couldn’t be dead. What the fuck had happened here? Then he remembered Berrings saying something about an interrogation. That must mean Malfoy was alive, right? Right? He’d spend all this time on his trail, and now… what? The Aurors passed him by, and he turned his head hastily to look at Malfoy’s body, twisted unnaturally in the air. He was rigid and pale. What the fuck… “Where are you taking him?!” he yelled abruptly.

“Uhm… Interrogation cell?” one of the Aurors said, dubious in the face of what Harry assumed would be his frenzied expression.

“Potter, are you quite alright?” Merryfold’s voice came from somewhere near Harry. “You look sick.”

He turned slowly to look at her; surely his turmoil and confusion was visible in his eyes. “What the fuck…”

“Oh, I know, I heard some noises inside when I arrived about half an hour ago. Naturally, I went in thinking it was our dear Hawnt, undoing all our progress by blocking the stairs again. But imagine my face when I found _him_. He was going crazy, let me tell you. Howling, shouting, throwing things around. I now see who the poltergeist takes after… Anyway, I had to stun the idiot.”

“So he’s not dead?” he said in a strangled voice. Intellectually, he knew that Malfoy was alive. At least, he’d deduced as much from the general sense of boredom everyone showed. But deep inside, instant relief flooded him at having Merryfold say it out loud.

“Of course he’s not dead; at least, not for now,” she smiled, teeth on show. “Merlin knows what the Wizengamot will do to him once they get their hands on the case.” She looked at him. “Potter, are you ill? You seem ill...”

“No, I’m fine-” Harry flapped a hand in the air. “Just... let’s go.” He turned around and started walking towards the gate.

\--

Harry followed Merryfold down a long corridor, into the elevator, and out again unaware of what floor they were on or whether there were other people riding with them. He didn’t notice a hurried memo flying towards him and colliding abruptly with his forehead, nor the cold emanating from the damp walls of the Ministry. He walked through doors and turned around the corners of the convoluted path to the interrogation cells as if his body wasn’t his own, detached and lost.

Eventually, they reached a small, dim room, the stone walls only visible thanks to a few floating orbs of luminous white light. Berrings was waiting inside; next to him was a man Harry couldn’t quite place. His eyes quickly found Malfoy, sitting behind a wooden table, a Healer tending to him. Harry stared, still in shock. Malfoy’s silvery hair一much longer now than in the picture, Harry noticed一was pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands falling at the sides of his face, lightly brushing his jaw. His head was down and his hands were cuffed to the table with a spell, the posture straining his white shirt at the shoulders.

Malfoy lifted his face slowly at the sound of the closing door. Dark bags under his tired, bright eyes contrasted with his ashen skin. At the sight of Harry staring fixedly at him, his posture straightened and the muscles of his face tensed.

For a brief moment, Harry expected to hear a drawled _Potter_ ; even a sneer would’ve put him at ease. But no words fell from Malfoy’s parted lips. Not a drop of sound for Harry to pick up lightly, and study with dedicated curiosity. A deep weight settled in his chest. He knew he was staring, standing still in front of his long-lost childhood enemy whom he hadn’t even thought about for so many years.

Who he couldn’t stop thinking about now.

Harry was flabbergasted. Malfoy’s presence here was unexpected, yes, but what was more astonishing was this sense of relief, almost a sort of gratitude at having finally found him. And it was awfully unnerving.

Merryfold elbowed him, making Harry snap out of his trance. She gave him a loaded look that Harry chose to read as _I have so many questions_... Harry tried to convey without words how he, too, had oh so very many questions of his own.

“Well.” Berrings broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled all over the room. “Now we’re all here, shall we begin?” He summoned four chairs that arranged themselves around the table. The Healer gave a nod to Berrings and left the room.

Right, Harry thought, the interrogation. Right. He cleared his throat.

Malfoy was still looking at Harry with an indecipherable expression; his eyes had unblinkingly followed him when he’d moved to sit down. Harry knew this because his own eyes hadn’t lifted from Malfoy’s face, either.

When they’d all settled around the little table, the unknown man who had been standing next to Berrings produced a roll of parchment and a quill and said in a firm voice, “Head Auror Gillibert Berrings, Aurors Catriella Gillian Merryfold and Harry James Potter, and I, Phillip Basilius Perkins, as Ministerial Legal Assistant, are here for the interrogation and questioning of Draco Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater and fugitive of the law under the regulations and statutes of the British Wizarding Community.” He stopped writing and, with a nod towards Berrings, said “you may proceed.”

“Excellent.” Berrings started. “Well, Mister Draco Malfoy!”

Malfoy finally stopped glaring at Harry—who was getting more uncomfortable by the minute but still couldn’t stop himself from returning the look, curiosity clouding his senses—and turned towards Berrings with a murderous scowl.

“As Mister Perkins has mentioned, and before we start with the procedure, we need to make sure you are aware of your current legal condition as a fugitive and untried Death Eater.”

“As I’ve been told,” Malfoy said sharply, with as much aplomb as he could apparently muster.

“Very well, then. Auror Merryfold, Auror Potter, you may question him.”

Harry felt nauseous. He wasn’t sure he could even speak in his current state. He needed to pull himself together. He could not be this much of a wreck while on the clock. Luckily, Merryfold was apparently delighted for the opportunity.

“So, Malfoy,” she said mockingly, “tell me, was it a new foreign dance you were doing when I found you, or had you lost your mummy and were trying to summon her with a tantrum?”

Malfoy fisted his hands over the table. “Don’t…” He took a shaky breath and looked down. “It was _the house_ ,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I see, the house. Yes, that explains everything,” she said sarcastically. “Was it whispering ugly things to you? Were you hearing little voices?”

Harry noticed a light blush creeping up Malfoy’s neck and felt the sudden urge to see where it began. He didn’t have much time to reflect on it, though, because Merryfold began speaking again.

“What were you doing there, anyway? You’ve been missing for ten years, and suddenly you appear out of the blue, practically gift wrapped for us to lock you down. Are you mental, or is the guilt eating you from inside?”

Malfoy exhaled and lifted his head to look at her. After a moment he said, “ _It_ summoned me.”

“Ha! The house summoned you?” she asked scornfully.

Harry felt he needed to step in, not that he wasn’t grateful that Merryfold had decided to take over the interrogation, but he had a slight feeling it wasn’t going to end very well.

“As I said, it summoned me. I was perfectly well, out and about and away from _here_ , until a week or so ago when I began feeling this... general discomfort. Naturally, I thought I might be coming down with something, but the doctor said I was completely fine. Only, well, it didn’t go away; it kept growing stronger until last night,” he explained.

“The _doctor_?” Merryfold asked at the same time Harry blurted, “Last night?”

“Oh, so he talks. Extraordinary.” And there it was. That familiar sneer, that judgemental lift of the eyebrow. Harry felt almost grateful for the jab of irritation that stirred inside of him.

“Let me get this straight. You, Draco Malfoy, infamous son of Lucius Malfoy, were feeling under the weather and went to see a _Muggle_ doctor?” Merryfold said.

“Astute.” He replied shortly.

“So, what happened last night?” Harry pushed.

“Well, if you must know—” he looked at Harry disdainfully, “— _Auror_ … Let’s see, how should I put this for you... It. Summoned. Me. I woke up at the Manor today.”

“Great,” Merryfold said to no one in particular, throwing her hands up. “Fantastic.”

Harry, along with pretty much everyone else in the room, apparently, didn’t know what to make of it. A house with so much power it could apparate a human being from Merlin knows where? It sounded suspicious, but he wasn’t sure why Malfoy would lie about that in particular. Maybe to preserve some dignity after being caught? It was stupid, at the lowest.

Silence took over the room. Harry felt uneasy. For the first time that day, he was paying attention to something other than Malfoy. Something very demanding that he should’ve noticed earlier, but evidently the lifetime shock he’d had hadn’t let him. That uncomfortable weight in his stomach he felt whenever he entered the Manor was now present with a strength he had never felt before. Only now, it was expanding towards his chest; his limbs started going rapidly numb, and tiny, cold drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. As he fought to keep his eyelids open, the last thing he saw was a pair of big, grey, silvery eyes staring right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

An overwhelming, sharp smell pulled Harry back to consciousness. He turned around on clean, starched sheets and promptly opened his eyes. Ron was slouching on a chair next to the bed, but he sat up when he saw Harry try to straighten up.

“Easy now, mate.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, bewildered. Last he remembered he was in the interrogation cell with... Malfoy? Had it all been a dream?

“How are you feeling?” Ron asked, worried.

“Where’s Malfoy? What happened?” Harry repeated.

“Um... Well. You... kind of passed out, mate. Healers say you’re just fine, but need to be under observation for a day,” Ron said, unsure.

“Passed out? How—When? I can’t- I can’t remember. Shit. What happened to Malfoy?”

“Ah, don’t worry about him now. They’ve got him in a high security holding cell in the Ministry, so he’s not going anywhere for the time being. Do you really not remember anything?”

“Fuck, mate. Are they taking him to Azkaban, you reckon?”

“Yeah, Berrings is waiting for the trial arrangements to be finished and then... Yes, I guess they will.”

Harry, who was propped up on his elbows, let himself flop down on the bed, taking his face in his hands and groaning. This situation had gotten out of control. Well, at least they hadn’t thrown him directly in Azkaban, he thought. _Where he belongs_ , a voice offered in his head. He dismissed the thought and sat up, his feet dangling from the side of the bed.

“Where are my clothes? I need to go see him,” he asked Ron.

“Wait, buddy. They said twenty-four hours...”

“How long have I been here?” he asked, quickly spotting his jeans and robes in a small basket in the corner of the room.

“Well, I reckon—” he cast a quick _Tempus_ , “—around nine hours.”

“That’s more than enough time wasted, don’t you think?” he said briskly. After buttoning his shirt, he picked up the set of robes, hanging them on his elbow. “Let’s go, come on.”

Ron sighed and got up. “At least let’s get something to eat first. I’m starving.”

\--

After a quick stop at Mungos’ cafeteria, they Floo’d into the Ministry and went straight to Harry’s office. He grabbed the Manor’s case file and sent an owl to Merryfold asking for the interrogation details he had missed.

Ron walked with him to the underground dungeons where temporary prisoners were held. A brunette witch, around the age of Mrs. Weasley but without a trace of her friendly expression, was reading a book behind the front desk by the entrance to a long row of cells.

“ID, please,” she said in a nasal pitch and bored tone without lifting her head from her novel called _When a Centaur Sings the Blues_ Harry couldn’t help but notice.

Harry took out his wand and swished it over a shining metal plate. The words Harry Potter, Auror Department, appeared, reflected in red ink next to his personal information and his lousy picture from years back. He should get that one redone, he thought as the woman checked the information.

“State your purpose,” she requested, handing him a thick, yellowish book to sign.

“I’m here to visit Draco Malfoy, taken into custody this morning. High security clearance.”

“Him too?” she asked, nodding towards Ron, who was standing behind Harry mid-yawn.

“No, thanks. I’ll...,” Ron took a look around, “wait round here,” and went to sit on an uncomfortably looking stone bench against the wall. 

“Just me, then.” Harry smiled at her.

The witch stood up halfheartedly, as if it was the worst inconvenience on earth to do her job, and produced a battered badge with the word VISITOR written on it. She pinned it to Harry’s lapel with a flick of her wand, and announced that he could now go through the security barrier.

“You have twenty minutes,” she told him, grabbing her book from the table, her eyes already back on its pages.

\--

A seemingly endless corridor stood before Harry. As he stepped into the candle lit passageway, his footsteps echoed in the distance. He knew he was acting on instinct, going in without a plan again, but he felt this compulsive need to see Malfoy, to make sure he was okay. He no longer worried over his weird emotional reactions to things related to the case. Nothing made sense anyway, and his need for answers was greater than his need for introspection. Nonetheless, feeling like he did had him on edge, and if today was any indication, it would soon start to interfere with the case.

A door lit up as he passed by, marking it as the correct one. He tapped his wand on the handle and it opened, revealing a dim room divided by metal bars. On Harry’s side, there was a single wooden chair; on the other side, there was Malfoy. His hair was loose now, Harry noticed. It fell a bit past his chin, curling softly at the ends. Harry wondered if it would be as soft and velvety as it looked—even under the dim light of the cell—if he were to touch it. Malfoy seemed even more exhausted than before; his bony face didn’t help his tired appearance.

Harry moved the chair closer to the cell bars and sat down. There weren’t many things inside, just a small bed and a chair on the cold stone floor. Malfoy was leaning against the wall opposite Harry, staring at the floor. The defiant, angry look from before had worn off. Now he looked just... sad.

“Hey,” Harry said, lifting his hand in a half wave.

Malfoy huffed, directing his gaze to the wall on his left, his jaw clenched. “Potter, to what do I owe the jolly visit? Your Auror friend wasn’t entertained enough?”

“Er, no. That’s not... Look, I’m just doing my job here. This is in no way an enjoyable moment for me, either.”

“Why, are you not rejoicing in the fact that it’s me on this side of the cage?” Malfoy replied with scorn. He was still not looking at Harry, which he found annoying after their intense staring match earlier during the interrogation.

“No, I’d honestly rather be at home, Malfoy!” He sighed heavily, lifting his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve listened to Ron and stayed at the hospital.”

“Still fainting like a damsel in distress, I see. Old habits die hard, huh?”

Harry lifted his gaze, and this time Malfoy was looking at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“Look, Malfoy. I didn’t come here to fight. As I’ve said, I’m just doing my job, and it so happens that, this time, my job is... well, your house.”

A slight pink tint coloured Malfoys cheeks. “Well, I’m awfully sorry, but I’m of no use to you. I hadn’t set foot in that preposterous place for ten years before today. And, quite frankly, if I never did again, it’d be too soon. Now, unless you can get me out of here—which I very much doubt, even if you wanted to—please leave me alone. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to see your substandard face.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face in irritation. It was unbelievable. Unbelievable! He wanted to tell the prick how insufferable he was. How much he got under Harry’s skin, and how little Harry cared for him and his idiotic house. He wanted to say it out loud so much, but through the years, he’d learned to control himself. He had to be better, otherwise what was the fucking point? All of his work, years and years of trying so hard, all to end up in another stupid fight with Malfoy? No, thanks. He was going to be the better man here.

He got up from the chair and stood stiffly for a moment. He felt his muscles tense as he fisted his hands at his sides.

“Kindly piss off,” Malfoy snarled, pointing his chin up.

“Yeah, I think I will, because _I_ can.” Harry decided that surely there’d be a better day to be the bigger man and stormed out of the room in a huff.

It was a start. Sort of.

Ron was dozing off on the bench when Harry reached the front desk. He returned the badge to the same bored woman after crossing the security barrier and went to wake Ron up.

“Any luck?” he asked tiredly as they walked to the Ministry’s Floo exits.

“Not really,” Harry said, frustrated and still a bit shaken from the encounter.

“Next time, then.” Ron patted him on the back twice and stepped into the green fire.

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted there to be a next time.

\--

When they arrived at Grimmauld, an anxious Hermione was waiting for them in the kitchen.

“Oh, boys!” she scolded them. “Didn’t you think to send an owl? I’ve been worried to death! I’d been working all day, running around the Ministry from meeting to meeting, when I got your owl, _Ron_ ,” she took a dramatic pause to look at him in the eye, ”saying Harry’d had an accident and- and that you were at Mungo’s! Just imagine my face when I got there and _both_ of you were gone! And then I had to deal with the Healers, too! Honestly!” she finished, agitated, a crease on her brow that resembled an angry Mrs. Weasley’s a bit too much.

Ron went pale instantly.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. It was my fault,” Harry explained, “I- I needed... I couldn’t wait twenty-four hours. It was nothing, really.”

“Yes, I can see,” she huffed, folding her arms. “I still don’t know what was so urgent that you couldn’t have owled me, though. Where were you?”

“Er... I needed to talk to Malfoy.”

Her eyes went big, all traces of irritation left from her face. “Malfoy?”

“Yeah, we found him this morning at the Manor.”

“You’re joking,” she said in disbelief.

“No. He was pretty, er, not well. They had to stun him, apparently.”

“Well, that’s some news!” she said, taking a seat and grabbing the cup of tea Ron handed her. “So? Tell me, what did he say? Does he have any new information? Why... Why did he go there, though? It was a risky move; did they take him in? Oh! That reminds me, this came for you.” She got up, went to the far end of the counter, and picked up an envelope.

“Well, no. No, nothing new,” Harry said, opening the letter without looking at it. “Apparently the house summoned him... Well, at least that’s what he—” he stopped short. The letter was from Merryfold. It was brief.

_Potter,_

_Glad you’re okay. What do you mean interrogation details? You were there. It was over after both of you fainted._

_C.M._

Harry read it again to make sure he’d understood. He had.

He got up and excused himself to Ron and Hermione in a rush.

“I’ve... Sorry, guys. I’ll- I’ll explain later.” He grabbed his leather jacket from the rack and stepped into the Floo. “Ministry of Magic!” he roared.

\--

“Back so soon?” the brunette witch asked him. At least this time a spark of curiosity shined in her eyes.

“Auror Harry J. Potter to see Draco L. Malfoy. High security clearance,” he stated shortly. He’d no time for small talk.

After she pinned the badge onto him, he rushed down the long corridor, taking long strides until he reached Malfoy’s cell.

“You fainted too!” He vociferated as he opened the door furiously.

“Good evening to you too, Potter,” Malfoy said flatly from where he was lying on his back over the rumpled bed. “Missed me that much?”

“Don’t ‘good evening’ me! You’re just so... you’re so... infuriating!” Harry said, exasperated. “I can’t believe... You _knew_ I fainted! Didn’t it occur to you that it’d be important to mention, oh, I don’t know... that you did as well?!” he practically yelled.

Malfoy got up from the bed, his jaw tense, and crossed the space between them in three big steps until he was face to face with Harry.

“What – the fuck – do you care, Potter?” he spit, punctuating every word. From this distance, Harry could see every detail of his face. Every speck in his grey eyes, every hair in disarray, his ashen skin softly shining under a thin layer of sweat and—were those tear tracks?

“Do not,” Harry intoned with all the authority he could muster, “for a single solitary second, think I care about _scum_ like you, Malfoy.” His voice dripped with disdain. “I’m just trying to do my fucking job.”

Malfoy retreated for a moment, taken aback by Harry’s hostility. His face did some small gesture, and then it was gone. “What in Merlin’s kingdom does that have to do with—with anything?! Fuck off and leave me alone!” He tried to school his expression into something nastier, but it was too late. Harry had seen. Had seen the worry and had seen the hurt. And the knowledge that he could _hurt_ Malfoy made him feel... powerful.

“You have no idea... how much I’d love to leave you alone. In fact, I was doing perfectly fine until I had to work on your shitshow of a house because you and your mother ran away after the war like the cowards that you are! And you can’t even be fucking responsible for your useless house!” He blurted. “But as I have to deal with your fucking Death Eater mess like I’ve been doing for the past ten years— _ten years_ , Malfoy—you could at least have the decency to give me the information I ask for!”

Malfoy had gone pale on the spot. He was slightly trembling, hands fisted on the hem of his shirt and looking at Harry like a cornered, wounded wolf.

“Don’t... Don’t... talk... DON’T TALK ABOUT MY MOTHER!” Malfoy screamed. He backtracked, hysterically crying all of a sudden; his eyes had gone wild, unfocused. He was looking everywhere and taking quick, panicked breaths. He took a step back, exhaling loudly. Tears were falling messily from his chin, wetting his dirty shirt. “Don’t... Ah...,” he held a hand against his chest and Harry mimicked the gesture unconsciously. “Ah... No...” He took a step towards the cell bars and grabbed one. Then, another. And another. He kept going, touching all of the metal bars until he was standing in front of Harry again. Malfoy lifted his face to look at him, and started shaking the metal bars uncontrollably, knuckles going white.

Harry felt his treacherous heart break.

There was nothing he would’ve liked more than to enjoy the sight of the eternally imperturbable Malfoy breaking down. But he’d already walked down that road, he told himself. He’d already seen it, been there, and known the consequences.

Harry lifted both his hands from his aching chest and closed them around Malfoy’s, who kept pushing at the bars even under Harry’s force. His beautiful features wrinkled in despair.

“Breathe,” Harry said calmly, watching him. “One, two... Breathe.”

“I- I can’t—” Malfoy sobbed loudly, but his jerks were losing strength. “I need- I can’t...”

“Breathe...” Harry repeated.

Malfoy started sliding down slowly, whimpering. Harry, who was still clasping his hands over Malfoy’s on the bars, went down with him until they were both half kneeling uncomfortably.

“F-Fuck— Fuck!” Malfoy squirmed, trying to get rid of Harry’s hold on him. But Harry didn’t let him. He moved his hands higher and grabbed Malfoy’s wrists so that he could let go of the bars.

“Hey,” Harry said. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be just fine…”

They sat there for a while; at one point the front desk lady had come to tell Harry his time was up, but he’d given her such a stern look that she’d slowly closed the door and hadn’t dared to come back in.

Malfoy kept quietly crying and sniffling. Harry held his wrists through the bars as well as he could until he realised he was unconsciously rubbing tiny circles over Malfoy’s skin and felt his face flush. He dropped them after that, eventually Malfoy turned around and they sat down back to back in silence for a while.

“Sorry. I’m-” Malfoy started to say.

“Yeah...” Harry said. “I’m sorry too.” He had, after all, lost control.

“Ha... Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Me apologising? Happens more often than you’d think.” Harry smirked to himself.

“It’s a first one for me, then.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything.”

Malfoy went quiet, and Harry took advantage of the silence to mull over the situation.

At last, Malfoy spoke with a soft, small voice. “I can’t be in here, Potter.”

“What did you expect? I mean, you run away from the Ministry after the war like that...”

“No, we—we didn’t run from the Ministry.” Malfoy tipped his head back and Harry felt the point of contact against his own head burning. “We ran away from my father,” he finished quietly.

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t thought about it that way; he’d just written it off as another sign of Malfoy’s cowardice. He hadn't cared about Lucius much after they’d sent him to Azkaban, either. It was just one more thing ticked off a very long list.

“He... He wasn’t right, by the end. My mother was so scared and... We had this summer house in Italy. We went there and just... stayed.”

“Italy? I’d have thought you were more of a cottage in France type.”

Malfoy snorted. “Yes, well... that too. But my father had too many contacts in Paris. Italy was... safer. At least it looked like it at the time.”

“So you’ve been there all these years?” Harry asked curiously.

“Sort off,” Malfoy exhaled and went quiet again.

“I saw a picture of you, you know?” Harry broke the silence. “In a fashion magazine.” He wasn’t sure why he was bringing this up, but his mind was reeling and this was the best it could provide, apparently.

“Oh, good grief...!” Malfoy said in a muffled voice, as if he was talking with his hands pressed to his face. “This is, without a doubt, the most embarrassing conversation I’ve had in... No, I think this is it. This is the most embarrassing conversation I’ve had.”

“You looked... good,” Harry provided.

“Goodbye, Potter, I’ll henceforward begin to slowly die of utter ridicule. Have a good life, this was nice.”

“Oh, come on! Draco Malfoy doesn’t know how to take a compliment? _That’s_ a first.”

“As a very senseless man once said, there’s a first time for everything.”

Harry smiled.

“When we first arrived in Italy, we didn’t have any money or belongings with us. The house was all we had, and we couldn’t use our vaults or even call our elves in case they were tracked. So at first we managed with whatever we had left in stock. After a while and after... Well, after, I had to start bringing money in. We didn’t want to show ourselves around the Wizarding areas, just in case, so I tried some Muggle jobs. It was... quite a mess.” He made a pause and Harry forced himself to picture Malfoy in an apron, or working a cash register. There was nothing undignified to it, of course, but the image strongly clashed with his general concept of Malfoy: a spoiled, arrogant, rich kid. “I didn’t know how to do anything; they kept sacking me. I lasted half a day on my first job at a coffee shop. Eventually, I found an open position at a bookstore inside an art museum. It was a straightforward job and paid just enough to buy food and cover mother’s… needs. A year after that, a man came to talk to me after my shift. He told me he’d been watching me for a few weeks because he went there often and couldn’t get me off his mind. I thought he was hitting on me, and I tried to convey as politely as I could that I wasn’t interested in men his age, but it turned out he was a photographer. He worked for a modelling agency, freelance, and when he told me the money I could get paid, well... let’s say I wouldn’t have to work for a long while.”

Harry was listening intently. He tried to recall another time when he’d had a chat this intimate and relaxed with Malfoy and came up blank.

“So he offered me a deal. I took it. Got paid a ridiculous amount and went on with life. I never knew what they did with the pictures, and I could’ve gone a lifetime without knowing, so thanks for the scarring image, Potter.”

“Oh, you know how it is. I live to serve,” Harry said. And then, “Can I ask you something?”

“Well, _clearly_ I can’t go anywhere, and I’ve already overshared, so I don’t see why not.”

“Why didn’t you come back? After your father died, I mean. I-I would’ve spoken for you and your mother at the trial. You could’ve bargained for a better sentence than Azkaban,” Harry said tentatively.

“Firstly, I don’t need you to speak for me, Potter. I would’ve taken any sentence with my head held high. I don’t need your pity—”

“That’s not—” Harry interrupted.

Malfoy raised his voice. “Secondly,” he said, “We couldn’t come because... My mother is not well. She got quite ill after the war; I didn’t like leaving her even to go to work, much less to go to prison.”

“I’m sorry about Narcissa,” Harry said. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not when I’m here about to-to go to Azkaban...” He whispered the last part in a wrecked voice. “I promised I’d never leave her.”

Harry kept quiet for a while, his mind processing all this new information. It wasn’t really anything useful for the case, but somehow he felt calmer now that he knew what Malfoy had been up to all these years. And he felt sorry for Narcissa, too, whatever it was that had happened to her. He took his glasses off and closed his eyes for a minute, head tilting back against the cold metal.

But then his eyes opened abruptly. Sitting up, he put his glasses on as the realisation hit him. “We need to get you out of here,” Harry said.

“Don’t be daft. Surely abusing your name must have _some_ limitations. Or are you above the law, too?”

“No, but...” Harry turned his body around to face Malfoy. “I have an idea.” He grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

The sounds of the Ministry coming to life in the morning startled Harry from his slumber. His head was draped on his folded arms over his desk, a trail of dried saliva tightening the skin of his chin. He rubbed his tired eyes and put his glasses on. Realizing he was still in his leather jacket, he changed into a spare set of robes he always kept in his office. He needed a shower. And coffee. But most of all, he needed Berrings.

Picking up a few scattered parchments from his desk and the Manor case file, Harry took a breath and strolled through the office, taking long, confident steps.

“Come in,” Berrings voice said from the other side of the door after Harry knocked twice.

“Hello, Sir,” Harry greeted him as he took a seat in his usual spot.

“Harry!” Berrings said, surprised. “How are you, boy? How are you feeling?”

“It was-I’m fine, thanks.” He knew he couldn’t possibly look fine after three hours of sleep on his desk, but he hoped that his wrung out appearance would help to make his point.

“Yes... Well, in any case, I’m glad you stopped by. We’ll need a formal statement of the events for healers to look into what happened with Mr. Malfoy. You gave us all quite the scare, boy, passing out and then the Malfoy kid... You can take the day off, of course.”

“What? No, no, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Isn’t it? Well, you should! Take the day, I mean.” Berrings gave him a pitying look. “I’m afraid the statement is not optional.”

“No- Really, I’m fine, and yes, I’ll do it later. It’s just... Well, you see, Malfoy fainted too, didn’t he?”

A crease of worry appeared on Berrings forehead.

“Well… yes, as I have just mentioned…” he said carefully.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry started to explain. “I have an idea, and I need your help.”

\--

Malfoy Manor was still a mess, with scattered stones and pieces of wall and furniture covering the foyer floor, when Harry and Merryfold arrived that day. Granted, the clear path through the stairs to the first floor had remained untouched—for which they were grateful. They still couldn't vanish any of the debris, though, so the week before they’d had no other option but to move them around to make way on the marble steps. Hawnt had been suspiciously quiet throughout the procedure; no songs or pieces of chairs thrown around on sight.

"Berrings told me you were taking the day off," Merryfold said, surprised when she met Harry at the gates. Her long, black hair was fastened in a tight ponytail on the top of her head, straining her features.

"Oh, well, I figured a bit of commitment wouldn't hurt," Harry replied and saw her smirk through the corner of his eye.

They went inside, going through their usual routine of moving around cautiously, taking notes of any slight changes that could’ve happened overnight. The magical residue was still covering most surfaces, although in some places more than others. Not that they'd had the chance to search many rooms, but the entrance hall and what they could see of the East wing corridor without disturbing Hawnt were pretty much bathed in the pale, blue dust. They had agreed that this was a good opportunity to go searching the first floor, but their aim was to get to the second floor and then the attic. It was unexplored territory, and Harry was excited to be doing something different. Even if it didn't quite get Malfoy out of his mind, it was a nice distraction; it made him feel useful. The uncomfortable sensation he was still getting every time he stepped in the house seemed to be subsiding, too—although not entirely—in the face of his anticipation.

Harry hadn't gone into detail about that feeling with anyone. It was difficult to explain that his body was having a physical response to a house. He’d had the disturbing thought that it could be related to the many years that his body had served as a Horcrux and the lingering presence of Voldemort’s magic in the house. The thought that he might still be having some sort of post-traumatic response to those lingering traces made him shiver. Although he felt silly for thinking it, even the idea of him somehow still having that connection was petrifying. He knew that Hermione or even Merryfold would probably have a better answer, but putting it into words would only make it feel more real. And what if he was right? What if the theory was correct? Harry shook his head at the prospect. No. He needed to solve this case and get the fuck away from this house.

They managed to reach the first floor where dusty corridors extended on each side. Starting with the one on the right, they walked together, wands firmly grasped on their hands. A row of grimy windows extended opposite five big wooden doors. The carpeted floor felt strange under the film of ashy residue. At the end of the corridor, there was what looked like an ante-room with another, smaller set of stairs that appeared to be completely blocked. Looking around, Harry instantly recognised the slightly ajar door to Malfoy's room. The other four doors were firmly shut.

He opened the first one; it led to a small restroom with a huge, beautiful, ornate mirror over a white marble sink and a toilet to match. The blue dust was minimal here, only visible in small amounts over the counter and on the floor. The ceiling was painted a shiny gold, and a small, silver chandelier was floating in the dark. Harry couldn't resist; he cast a quick spell to light the candles, spreading a beautiful autumnal glow over the room. Merryfold poked her head in and gave Harry a funny expression.

"Need the loo, Potter?"

"Er, no. Let's go," he said, feeling his face heat.

"This door's already opened," Merryfold said as they stepped into the corridor again, nodding towards Malfoy’s room.

"Yeah, well, this is- This is where I ended up in after the cellar incident. I don't think there'll be much here, really."

"A second set of eyes won't hurt," she replied and promptly went into the room.

Harry winced inwardly. He really didn't want to be in there again. It felt… private. Hawnt’s chants calling them invaders flew uncomfortably through Harry’s mind.

The room was exactly how Harry had left it. Not that he had touched anything, really. Well, other than the box, he supposed.

"Potter…" Merryfold said in a surprised whisper, her eyes were looking intently around the room. She took a step towards the crowded desk and lifted some kind of trinket to her eyes. She put it down and walked towards the bed, brushing her hand against the bedding. Harry wondered what she had seen.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously.

She straightened up and held out the hand that had been touching the covers, palm up. "Can't you see? There's… no residue in here. Look." She held her hand closer to Harry's face. "See?"

Harry hadn't, in fact, noticed that. In his defence, he'd been quite preoccupied the last time he'd been in here. But Merryfold was right—there wasn't any trace of residue, he realized as he walked towards the windowsill.

"Strange…," he muttered. "Maybe it hasn't reached all the rooms yet?"

"Yeah… maybe," she said, uncertain. "Wasn't this where you found that box? Anything interesting inside?"

"Oh…" Harry blushed, remembering the picture. "Just an old cloth."

"Hm… well, guess you were right. Nothing useful here for now. Let's check out next door," she said, heading for the door.

"You go ahead, I need to, er, do… something, first."

"Ok! Ooh, it opens!" she yelled from the corridor.

Harry crossed the room and walked around the bed to the place where he'd found the box. He stood facing the wall, looking at the pictures stuck to it. Malfoy's face, distinctly happy in all of them. They looked different to Harry now that he'd gotten to be around Malfoy, to see and talk to him. The pictures looked more real now, more alive, showing a life—another life—in which Malfoy had been different. Or, well, different from the person Harry knew. He stood there for quite a while, feeling himself fall into a make-believe world in which he had been a part of those memories. Riding a toy broom right beside little Malfoy, being held as a baby by loving arms. All the while, he didn't notice the increasing ache spreading from his chest towards his stomach. He didn't realise the painful calling, like a hand that stretched desperately in the dark, looking for comfort and warmth. Looking for a friend.

\--

Ron had been sitting on the couch, determinedly looking at the floor, for the last ten minutes. Hermione was silently pacing the study. No one had said anything after Harry had explained his plan. It wasn’t a bad idea, Harry thought. Actually, it was far from bad, his gut insisted. Neither of his friends seemed very receptive to it, but Harry had expected that. They couldn’t possibly understand, could they? They hadn’t been at the house, nor had they seen Malfoy. They hadn’t felt the gut-wrenching feeling that overcame Harry with every visit, clouding his senses and endlessly confusing.

Finally, Ron lifted his head.

“Mate... Does he _need_ to stay here, though?” he asked weakly. “Can’t he... I don’t know, stay at a friend’s or something? A hotel even?”

“Guys, I know it’s weird. I know,” Harry tried to explain, yet again. “But he’ll be under my custody. I can’t let him go wandering out of my sight. That’s one of the conditions.”

“Ugh... It’ll be _so_ strange. He’d better behave, Harry, I’m telling you...” Ron said sternly. Harry knew he was worried about Hermione. And, quite frankly, Harry was, too, a bit.

Seeing Malfoy like that the night before had been... a revelation. Their encounter replayed in Harry’s mind incessantly, and an uncontrollable urge to do something about it nagged at him any time he managed to forget the memory. Making Malfoy an external consultant on the case hadn’t seem like too bad of an idea from his point of view. For one, Harry was certain—mostly—that no matter what was at work in the Manor, having Malfoy around was key. But also, even though it was a bit difficult for him to admit, helping him was the humane thing to do after how the last visit had gone. The _right_ thing to do.

There was also that other element, the physical sensation, and he knew he needed to follow his instinct on this one, even though it scared him. He just... _knew_ it. And if Ron and Hermione wouldn’t be a part of it, he’d manage. They could keep Malfoy locked up in one of the spare rooms, for all he cared. Harry just needed him handy, at his disposal. Out of that awful cell. He needed him close.

“Look, he’s at a disadvantage here. I’m sure they won’t let him have his wand, and anyway, I don’t think he’d even dare to make a wrong move,” Harry tried to reason. He wasn’t really sure, but he hoped. He had to.

“Harry... I understand what you’re trying to do, I honestly do. And as much as I don’t like the idea of releasing him under custody, it is true that there aren’t many ways for him to help, otherwise. I think the house needs him there, physically, you know? But...” Hermione had stopped pacing and was now looking through the window at the damp, winter grass of Grimmauld’s backyard, twisting her fingers around her braided hair. “I’m worried about you. You and Malfoy here, together... I don’t know, Harry. Can’t Merryfold do this? Or couldn’t another Auror take care of Malfoy’s custody while you just keep working on research?” She turned to look at him with a sour expression.

“That’s actually a brilliant idea ‘Mione! I can push a bit, you know, to make it work,” Ron agreed, suddenly smiling. “Robbins owes me a couple of favours, maybe he could-“

“No, you guys... you don’t understand! He’ll be under _my_ custody, and that’s why they’ll let him out. Do you honestly think they’ll be so complacent as to let a _Malfoy_ out under fucking Robbins’ watch? Untried?” Harry threw his arms in the air indignantly looking from Ron to Hermione with big, angry eyes. “Hah! No, I don’t fucking think so. He needs to be _here_. With _me_.”

It could’ve been the ferocity he was surely showing, or the fire of protectiveness that had been lit inside him. Maybe it was the dormant fury pushing to break free from every molecule of his body. Whatever it was, his friends looked taken aback.

“I’m sorry-“

“Oh, Harry...” Hermione said, but then went quiet. Harry didn’t want to know what would’ve followed, anyway.

“It’ll be for a short time, I promise. If- if this doesn’t work... If it doesn’t help… the house. We’ll-” The truth was, Harry didn’t know what he was going to do if this didn’t work out. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and he didn’t particularly want to.

“We’ll figure it out, Harry,” Hermione said with a sweet smile that didn’t quite reach her worried eyes, but he loved her deeply for it, anyway.

“Yeah, mate...” Ron said, also uncertain as he got up to put a protective arm around Hermione’s waist. “Just, make sure he’ll stay in line.”

Harry nodded and exhaled. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until that point. It wasn’t going to be easy, he knew, but he was going to make it work.

\--

That evening, when Harry went to bed, a growing spike of anxiety kept him awake. He sat propped against his headboard and grabbed the box from his nightstand. He didn't need to open it; just closing his eyes and feeling the cool edges against his hands was enough to make him feel comforted and secure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

A pleasant excitement accompanied Harry as he stood inside the elevator waiting to reach the holding cells. Berrings would meet him there at half past eight, he'd said, but Harry was a couple of minutes early just in case the nosy lady at the front desk was feeling chatty.

As it turned out, she was apparently still quite shocked from the encounter the night before when Harry had not-so-politely insisted that she extend his visiting time. She didn't even greet him, just handed him the heavy, yellowed book to sign and pinned the visitor badge to Harry's lapel as soon as he swished his wand over the identification plaque.

Harry went to sit down on the stone bench against the wall, his jittery leg bouncing up and down in anticipation. He tried to take a few breaths to calm himself down. He told himself that this was just a necessary measure to solve a strange case, and that anyone in his position would've done the same. It was just a short-term living arrangement, and he had nothing to fear or feel hopeful for. He swallowed, choking on his saliva a bit, and the witch gave him an unimpressed look over the pages of her book as he coughed it out. Not- not _hopeful_ , Merlin, just nothing to fear. Nothing-to-fear.

"Harry, my boy!" said Berrings loudly, opening his arms as he briskly walked towards Harry. "Hope I didn't make you wait long."

"Hello, Sir. You didn’t; I got here a bit early," Harry said, standing up quickly and walking him to the front desk.

"Oh, well, in that case, shall we?" Berrings approached the desk and waved his wand over the plaque. "Head Auror Gillibert Berrings and Auror Harry Potter to see Draco Malfoy, please. High security clearance, and release under custody procedure." At that last part, the lady behind the desk lifted her head in hesitation, looking from Harry to Berrings. When the latter nodded, she pinned another visitor badge to Berrings’ robes and they passed through the barrier.

"I need to grab the paperwork, Harry," Berrings said, gesturing towards a door behind the desk. "I'll be five minutes. Go ahead if you want."

Suddenly nervous, Harry made his way through the corridor until he was standing in front of Malfoy's door. Taking a deep breath, he waved his wand over the handle and opened it.

The dim light of a candle shone against Malfoy’s profile. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed against the cold wall. As he turned his head towards the door, prominent purple bags under his eyes revealed that he likely hadn’t slept a wink last night. Malfoy watched, unperturbed, as Harry came through the door and sat on the visitor’s chair.

“Ah, an explanation for the sudden burst of temperature,” Malfoy drawled, pointing to Harry with his palm up, “my own personal hell... Magnificent! Does it come with its own thermostat?” He mimicked fanning himself with the top of his shirt and Harry noticed he was wearing a two-piece, striped prison uniform now. Malfoy saw Harry staring. “Enjoying the view? I bet your friends at the Ministry can get you one just like it if you ask nicely enough.”

Harry had expected Malfoy to get on his nerves right away, but in this unlikely scenario where Malfoy was powerless against Harry, he just found his deflecting humour, well, actually funny. “Too bad, Malfoy,” he said. “I think I’ll have already filled my favour quota after today. But thanks for worrying,” he finished, smiling sheepishly as Berrings came in.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, looks like you’re in luck today, eh?”

If it was humanly possible, Malfoy suddenly looked even paler than before. His eyes went big and bright, switching from Harry’s to Berrings’ face quickly. All traces of smugness were gone from his tense features.

“What’s going on? What did you do?” he spat, sending Harry a murderous glare.

“Don’t look so scared; you’re being released!” Berrings told Malfoy, patting Harry’s back.

“What…?” Malfoy said under his breath, and went quiet.

Berrings unrolled a parchment and started to read out loud.

 _“Under clause 54-B of the Protection of the Wizarding Population Act and clause 15-J of the Wizarding Human Rights Code, we are hereby dictating the release under parole of Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy (henceforth “The accused”) to the custody of a guardian to assist in the restoration of the Malfoy estate. His guardian, Auror Harry James Potter, will be held accountable for any misconduct and/or breach of the law on the part of the accused. The accused will not be allowed possession of a wand or the use of magic of any kind, nor shall he handle money, Wizarding or Muggle. The accused will accept the placement of a tracer for the duration of his duties related to the aforementioned case. The accused will comply with these rules and norms for the necessary period of time, during which his trial will be postponed, until completion of the aforementioned task or the death of one or both of the concerned parties.”_ Berrings rolled the parchment half-way and signed it underneath a box labeled _Witness_. He then passed it on to Harry to sign under a box on the right side that said _Guardian_.

Harry signed and looked up. Malfoy’s face was completely livid. He took the parchment, and with a trembling hand, signed under the box that said _Accused_.

“Very well, then! That’s done,” Berrings said, clapping his hands together. “Mr. Malfoy, any questions or concerns regarding the conditions of your release?”

Malfoy shook his head lightly. “A million…”

“Excellent, excellent!” Berrings took a step towards the cell door and tapped his wand against the bars, which shimmered gold for a brief moment before vanishing. He then grabbed a small bag from the floor and gave it to Malfoy, who took it hastily. “Your belongings, Mr. Malfoy.”

\--

Opening the door to Grimmauld Place, Harry felt a vague sense of shame creeping over him at the state the house was in. It was as if, with Malfoy trailing behind him, he was seeing it anew. Even though through the years they’d tried to keep it in good shape—Hermione and Ron, mostly—there was so much in disarray. Some of it, Harry suspected, was the house deeming them unwelcome. Still, he went to open the door to the drawing room, one of the few well-kept rooms, and gestured for Malfoy—who had been unusually quiet and compliant—to follow him inside.

“So,” Harry said, pointing up. “I’ll go prepare the guest room…”

Malfoy blinked at him from where he was standing under the door frame, a pink shade on his cheeks the only indication he was not a decorative marble statue.

“Yeah. Er, help yourself to the bar,” he offered awkwardly, patting the shiny wooden top of the drinks cabinet.

Malfoy didn’t move from his spot. He looked so small, swimming inside the rumpled, oversized uniform. The stretched neck of the top hung low from one of his shoulders, revealing a patch of silky pale skin Harry couldn’t stop _staring_ at. He walked slowly towards the door and held his breath as he brushed his arm against Malfoy’s. As soon as he was out of the room he exhaled, feeling goosebumps on the back of his neck. All of his confidence from before had worn off, uncertain _what ifs_ taking up residence in its place. _Too late now_ , Harry thought bleakly.

When Harry had first moved to Grimmauld Place, he hadn’t really settled into any of the rooms. He’d passed out sprawled on the drawing room couch the first few nights, then gradually made it his go-to place for when he got tired of wandering around the house. After all, he had the fireplace, the bar, a comfortable couch and- well, that was all he’d needed at the moment, really. When Ron and Hermione moved in, though, he knew he had to pick a bedroom from the many the house had to offer in its upper floors. He’d chosen the one furthest from Sirius’ room, even though he’d spent a great deal of time inside it at first. The bad memories held him back, and he didn’t want his friends to see him like that. It was private. So he’d firmly locked it and never opened it again.

There weren’t many available rooms left now, only two: one at the beginning of the first floor corridor, in front of the master bedroom that had been taken by Ron and Hermione—an option he quickly discarded for the sake of keeping some semblance of peace—and the second to last door down the hall, next to Harry’s room. He opened it and cast a spell to light the candles. A stale smell flooded his nostrils as he crossed the room with swift steps. He coughed when he opened the small window to let some air in, then cast a few scourgifies over the bed, the floor, and inside the closet. That’d have to do. At least it was better than a cold, stone-floored cell in the Ministry. He went to his own room and grabbed some bed sheets and towels to leave on top of what was now Malfoy’s bed. He wasn’t sure what it was that he had inside the bag, but it wouldn’t be much, judging by the size of it.

“I’ve-” Harry began to say as he entered the study, but stopped abruptly at the sight before him. Malfoy had moved to sit on the couch, his back upright and his arm perched up on the armrest, his head resting on his knuckles. His other hand was firmly clutching the tiny bag on his lap. He was asleep. Soft, short breaths made his chest rise and fall rhythmically, and Harry found himself watching, bewitched. He took a step back, closed the door softly, and went to the kitchen.

Harry was on his second cup of tea and munching on a cheese toasty, idly wondering what he should fix for lunch, when Malfoy came through the kitchen door, disoriented. His tousled blond locks fell back as he yawned.

“Still here, I see,” he said in a low voice. “I was hoping it had been all a dreadful nightmare, but that’s not my luck.”

“Do you want some tea?” Harry offered, moving towards the stove to grab the kettle.

Malfoy sniffed loudly, “I’d rather have a shower, if you don’t mind. Utter shame would be so much easier to endure if I were at least presentable.”

“Yeah... Yeah, of course. Sorry, come on, I’ll show you.”

Harry took him to the bathroom at the end of the long corridor upstairs. They stopped briefly at Malfoy’s room to get a towel.

“Is there anything else you need?” Harry asked, opening the shower curtain and turning the water on with his wand. “You can use whichever shampoo and soap you like, just stay away from Hermione’s lavender body wash—trust me.”

“I’m already dreading asking this of you, Potter, but... have you got any clothes I can borrow?” Malfoy asked from behind him.

“Shit, I didn’t think of that, yeah. Yeah, I’ll- Just a second.” He promptly left the bathroom and went into his room.

\--

A fry-up was sizzling on the skillet when Malfoy entered the kitchen for a second time that day, now looking a bit more composed and overall clean. He sat quietly on a chair and fiddled with the cuffs of his borrowed jumper. It suited him. The black wool, with stripes of gold on the neck and hem, complimented his skin tone. It looked quite good on Malfoy, the dark colour and the stripes matching his shiny, wet hair, Harry noticed distractedly.

“Potter, that might be burning, I think.”

Malfoy wasn't looking at Harry, but rather at the blank wall, which he seemed to find unusually interesting.

Harry quickly turned off the stove and served the food onto two plates, which he put on the table. He then grabbed the tea mugs from the counter. “Here,” he said, handing one to Malfoy.

They ate in amicable silence, or, at least, a less-tense silence than before. When Malfoy finished, he crossed the cutlery over his plate and stared at Harry intently.

“So...” he trailed off.

“So...” Harry mimicked. He knew he was staring again, and he mentally scolded himself. _Get a grip_.

“Would you be so kind as to explain this?” Malfoy gestured between them.

“Er, this...?” Harry asked, confused.

“This, Potter.” He made the gesture again. “You. Me. At my dearest aunt’s house. Eating sausages and tea.”

“Oh, er, I told you, I need help with the house.”

Malfoy stared at him. “Yes, I can very well see that.” He looked around the kitchen. “A house-elf would be most helpful, I believe. I’m not sure what _I_ —a fugitive Death Eater, as your friends kindly put it—can do for you in that department. Or any other, for that matter,” he stated. “Where’s that old, grumpy elf by the way?” Malfoy asked, looking around as if the action could make Kreacher suddenly appear. Harry knew it wouldn’t. He’d tried for long enough.

“No, not— _that_ type of help.” Harry said irritated. “With _your_ house! I told you last night!”

“Yes, I remember. I also remember saying that I’d be of no use and to kindly piss of.” He lifted an eyebrow questioningly. “Yet here I am, Potter. In your kitchen. Care to explain?”

“You’re so...” Harry took a deep breath, exhaled. Counted to three, “I think I’d better show you.”

\--

As much as Harry had doubted his idea before, he regained his confidence when, after side-alonging Malfoy to the Manor’s gate, it smoothly opened before them in a warm welcome.

“That’s a first!” Harry said, elated.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but stood in place, unmoving, the cold, autumnal wind ruffling his hair. “Hm... I don’t- I don’t think I really fancy going in there, Potter,” he said, hesitant.

Harry noticed that his breath had gone quick and shallow, and he tried to think on the spot. He wasn’t sure he could handle another full-on panic attack here. He took a careful step towards Malfoy and stood in front of him. “Hey,” he said softly, looking into his scared eyes. They were glazed over, the pupils fully dilated, and his features were tense. “Hey, hey. You’re alright. I’m here. It’s not that bad in there, okay?” Harry tried.

Malfoy wasn’t looking at him; it was as if he was having trouble focusing. He lifted a hand to his chest and closed his eyes.

“Hey, no, no, look at me,” Harry said and instinctively held his face, a hand on each cheek, to ground him. “Can you do that? Draco, can you look at me?”

Malfoy opened his eyes halfway. His skin was warm against Harry’s cold hands. “Good,” Harry said. “Now, breathe. One, two, breathe... Remember?” He grabbed Malfoy’s hand in his, keeping the other on his cheek, and brought it to his own chest, not letting it go. “Can you feel that? Breathe like me. One, two... Breathe.”

Malfoy swallowed, but kept his eyes locked on Harry’s. He was listening, and his breathing was getting slower.

“That’s it. That’s good.” Harry said. He didn’t let go of his hand, but he moved the one still on Malfoy’s face to brush back a strand of hair that had fallen out of line. “That’s so good. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought you here. I’m so sorry. We can go back.” He dropped his hands, but Malfoy didn’t move back. He was firmly clutching Harry’s shirt.

“N-no.” Malfoy whispered. His pupils were still dilated, but now he was looking at Harry with an intensity and a conviction that hadn’t been there before. “No, I want to- I want to help.”

“Are you sure? We can come back-”

“Let’s go Potter; don’t be such a chicken,” Malfoy replied, with a slightly shaky attempt at a smirk.

“Sure,” Harry smiled, “follow me, then.”

\--

As they walked along the path, Harry gave Malfoy a brief recounting of the overall state of the house and how it’d been mysteriously reacting to any attempts to fix it.

“Circe, what a wreck,” Malfoy announced when the expanse of the grounds came into view. “How did this happen?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, but...” Harry shrugged. “Wait ‘til we get inside.”

As soon as they climbed the steps and opened the door, Harry knew something was very, very wrong.

It was... clean. There was still a thick layer of magical residue over most of the surfaces, but the debris from the stairs had disappeared and the broken furniture was nowhere to be seen. Harry frowned. “What happened…?” he whispered.

“Agh...!”

Harry turned to look at Malfoy, who was doubled over, grabbing his stomach in a pained gesture. “Malfoy!” Harry exclaimed, and quickly put a hand on his back to soothe him—he wasn’t sure how, yet, but that was generally what people did, right? “What’s wrong?”

“Oh fuck...” Malfoy whined, straightening up slowly. “Good grief,” he put a hand firmly on his chest. “What is this?”

“What’s what? What’s going on?”

“This... this...! I don’t know, something suddenly... _burst_ inside me.” He gestured towards his chest and stomach.

“Like a- a _pull_?” Harry stammered.

Malfoy looked at him. “Yes... Like a pull. How did you know?”

Harry swallowed, idly lifting a hand to his own chest. “I... don’t,” he lied.

“It feels like-” But Malfoy didn’t finish saying what it felt like, because a sudden, deafening screech exploded from the East wing.

“MASTER HAS COME HOME!! WAHAHA! MASTER AND THE INVADER BOY!! MASTER HAS COME HOME!!”

“Hawnt!” Harry yelled over the rattle. Hawnt was flying in circles over their heads, throwing small objects at them and laughing hysterically.

“What the fuck?” said Malfoy, dodging what looked like an ash-tray. “What the- Potter!”

“He’s...! He’s usually in the East wing; I’ve never seen him leave!” Harry yelled, stepping back to avoid being hit with a tea mug. “Didn’t know he could!”

“YOU CAN’T CATCH HAWNT!” The poltergeist screeched louder. “HAHAHA! HAWNT IS FREE!”

“Ouch!” Harry covered his head after Hawnt threw something that hit his forehead, hard, before falling to the floor. It looked like a piano key. Harry pulled out his wand, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to single handedly trap him. It was a two-man job.

“Malfoy, behind me!” Harry ordered. “NOW!” He cast a shield around them both and started firing stinging hexes to make Hawnt backtrack until they made it to the corridor, where he crashed against an old suit of armour. Harry tried to instruct Malfoy to open the closet door, but apparently Hawnt had no intention of going back in with his renewed spirit for mass destruction. He stood in front of the door, swinging the fallen sword of the armour, and even though Malfoy tried to dodge it as best as he could, he screamed when it cut through the skin of the arm he was using to cover his face. Harry ran towards him while trying to stun Hawnt, but the poltergeist was faster and had already opened the closet door, kicking them both inside.

“NO CLOSET FOR HAWNT!! NO CLOSET FOR HAWNT!!” He started chanting manically.

“What on Circe’s green earth is he singing...? Careful Potter!” Harry quickly dropped Malfoy’s arm.

“Sorry, sorry.” He tried lifting his wand to cast a healing charm on the wound, but the space was so tight, he didn’t have much room to work. “Stay still, I’m trying to fix it,” he whispered.

Malfoy was furious and agitated and so, so close. They were almost chest to chest. He turned his arm slowly and Harry twisted his hand to move the wand as best as he could over the cut. It wasn’t deep luckily, because he was shit at healing spells.

“Thanks,” Malfoy said, pointedly looking at the floor, his brow furrowed.

“For some reason, this is the second time this month I’ve ended up stuck between two walls in this house. I’m starting to sense a pattern.”

“Oh, save your pathetic anecdotes for tea time, Potter. Let’s get out of here.” Malfoy replied snarkily, reaching for the handle.

“Wait, we need to make sure he’s gone. I’m not-”

“NO CLOSET FOR HAWNT!!” The loud screech came as soon as Malfoy pushed the door open an inch. He closed it just in time to hear the sound of glass shattering against it from the outside and stood, befuddled, in front of Harry, who had grabbed his arm—again. “So,” Malfoy lifted a brow, “what’s your plan?”

Harry looked at him, dazed. “Plan…?” He loosened his grip on Malfoy’s arm and let his hand slide down, feeling the lingering warmth on his fingers where their hands now touched.

“We- we can’t-” Malfoy started to say, voice suddenly raspy. He cleared his throat and pointedly directed his eyes to the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “I mean, we can’t stay in here forever, Potter. Did you have something in mind?”

“Er…” Harry mumbled, stupidly. From this position, he could see the clear lines of Malfoy’s pale throat, his prominent Adam’s apple, and smell the weak scent of Harry’s own coconut body wash. He supressed an urge to poke his tongue out and lick it. Instead, he closed his eyes and pulled back his hand. “Right, a plan. Yes.”

Malfoy huffed, still looking at the ceiling, chin pointing up. “Are you always this expeditive, or am I getting special treatment?”

“Shush! I’m trying to think!” Harry tried to kick him lightly on the shin, but the tight space made his boot miss Malfoy’s leg entirely, colliding instead with the wall. “Ow, fuck!” he hissed, and instinctively lifted his knee, hitting Malfoy right in the crotch.

“Ah! Fucking hell, Potter! What are you _doing_ , you pillock!” Malfoy cried, lowering his hands to cover himself as best as he could.

“S-Sorry-!” Harry spluttered, red-faced with embarrassment.

Malfoy tried to glare at him, but he couldn’t hold the serious façade for long and in a matter of seconds he let out a loud snort, smiling wildly.

Harry was torn between admiring this unusual event and letting himself crack up. Eventually, the absurdity of the situation won, and he let out a very unattractive chortle. Malfoy was cackling, his head low, a hand covering his eyes and Harry couldn’t help himself when his head tipped forward, resting his forehead on Malfoy’s shoulder. They were both laughing convulsively, trying to breathe and compose themselves. Harry’s stomach ached, and for the first time in many, many days, it wasn’t an omen of something awful.

“Ah, oh my God…” Harry exhaled loudly when they’d managed to overcome their fit of laughter. He swiped a tear from his eye, his head still comfortably nestled on silky skin that wasn’t his, the rich scent of it invading his senses. A heavy silence settled over both of them, abruptly. Now that the high was over, Harry noticed self-consciously the awkward position they were in. He felt Malfoy’s hand burning against his shirt where he was grasping it, leaving a trail of embers under his touch. Malfoy moved his head a tad lower, and their cheeks brushed, making Harry’s breaths come short and fast. He let himself relish the rub of stubble, the mingling of their burning breaths.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them tried to move.

Neither of them acknowledged the other, and yet, their hearts seemed to fall into sync; their chests, almost flush against each other, seemed to beat to the same hasty rhythm.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry felt both terrified and amazed. As he straightened, he carefully lifted a hand to rest it on the opposite wall, next to Malfoy’s head.

Malfoy had a few inches on Harry, but in that moment, they saw eye to eye. An unwelcome revelation tried to make itself known in Harry’s chest, but he pushed it down, saved it for later, to mull over on what would surely be yet another sleepless night.

“I think the creature is gone,” Malfoy’s hoarse voice whispered, breaking the spell but not taking his eyes from Harry’s.

They opened the door slowly and were met with nothing but dead silence.

Neither broke it as they walked the pristine corridor to the foyer.

Neither noticed how some the formerly empty portraits were now occupied, or how the midday sun was now shimmering in the East wing floor through clear, clean windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	13. Chapter 13

“Merlin and Morgana both!”

Merryfold walked carefully around the foyer the next day, taking in the very obvious changes to the house with an astonished expression. She brushed the clean, delicate fabric of one of the curtains with her long fingers. “How did you even manage this?”

In her awe, Merryfold seemed to have forgotten her hatred for Malfoy and was now addressing them both. Malfoy, evidently, had not, for he was standing rigidly by the door, his neck tense, wearing a conflicted expression and clearly—Harry thought—biting back a snarky remark.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered quickly before Malfoy could say anything at all. “As I told you in the letter, it was like this when we arrived. I’m thinking… Well, Hawnt did say that the master was back, didn’t he? Maybe the house is healing now that Malfoy’s here.”

“Yes, probably. I’ll need to add this to the reports; will you be alright on your own for today?”

“I’m not-“

“We’ll be careful.”

Harry turned his head to find Malfoy right next to him. He held himself with confidence, and, despite being wandless, he showed every bit of the authority one would expect the master of the Manor to have. Harry felt powerless to look anywhere else.

“Will you…” Merryfold said flatly.

“Yeah!” Harry bellowed, snapping out of his trance. “I mean, yes. I’ll send a Patronus if something happens, I promise.”

With a lift of an eyebrow, she gave them a final look before she walked towards the main door, shutting it loudly behind herself.

“Subtle,” Malfoy smirked.

“Oh, shut it. Come on, let’s see if something happened on the first floor,” Harry offered, biting back a yawn.

The night before had been awful after that first visit to the Manor with Malfoy. Harry had made it home with too many uncomfortable questions on the tip of his tongue. Malfoy had locked himself up in his room, and hadn’t spoken to him all afternoon. By the time Ron and Hermione arrived, Harry felt awfully irritated, hastily stirring a pot on the stove; they knew better than to try talking to him when he got like that. Instead, they’d traitorously gone upstairs and come back with a tense Malfoy trailing after them.

“So, Malfoy,” Hermione had said afterwards, during dinner. “I heard you’ve been modelling?”

Malfoy’s head snapped up, a look of utter terror on his face. “You _told_ them?” he spat at Harry.

“Of course he told us!” Ron said indignantly. “We’re his friends.”

Harry felt a pang of guilt now that he knew the story behind the photo. It evidently hadn’t been a joyful situation for Malfoy, but he had nothing to be ashamed of, quite the contrary. And besides, Ron was right, they were his friends. He refused to feel bad. “It was in a bloody magazine, Malfoy! Ron, Hermione, and another thousand people have seen it probably.”

“Charming. Thank you ever so much for the kind reminder,” Malfoy hastily pushed himself up from the chair and left the kitchen.

“That went well,” Hermione said once he was gone, probably into his room again.

Harry didn’t say anything else on the matter. The whole situation was convoluted enough without dwelling on stupid things like Malfoy getting upset over that terribly awful photo that Harry had most certainly not taken from the magazine and put inside his nightstand drawer. He refused to keep thinking about any of it, he’d told himself as he climbed into bed. He’d been exhausted, had had a very trying last few days and deserved a quiet night of peaceful sleep.

One day, Harry thought stroking the crest on the metal box, he would get to sleep all of the hours his treacherous brain had kept him from. As the light of the morning hours shone through his window, he finally managed to close his eyes.

\--

After Merryfold had left, Harry and Malfoy kept working on the house until late in the afternoon. Granted, it had been a lot quieter without Hawnt roaming around, but they had been tiptoeing around each other all day instead, and arrived at Grimmauld Place exhausted that evening. A tense atmosphere had lingered between them, with Malfoy unwillingly trailing after Harry, who didn’t trust him enough to let him on his own, but also knew that Malfoy couldn’t protect himself if something were to happen.

Harry slid out of his robes and instinctively made to hang them on the old wooden rack.

“Ahem!” A gravelly voice interrupted them. “If I may, Master…”

Harry instantly turned around to be met with two small, shiny eyes. He took a sharp breath. “Kreacher?”

“Finally…” Malfoy drawled, throwing his borrowed jacket at the elf on his way to the kitchen.

“Kreacher?! How… What-” Harry asked befuddled.

“The house called for Kreacher, Master. Kreacher came to get Master’s robes. Good thing he did, a good wash they need,” Kreacher replied, eyeing the robes with contempt.

Harry swallowed and stalled, trying to think of an explanation for the unexpected presence of the elf standing before him. He came up blank. He’d thought Kreacher had been dead all these years, or… or gone. Elsewhere. The house summoned him? From where? How? And _why_? It made no sense. No sense at all. Seeing no other option than to hand Kreacher his robes, he slowly made for the kitchen, troubled and confused.

Harry sped up when he started hearing sounds of movement coming from behind the kitchen door. He opened it quietly and peeked inside.

Malfoy was standing in front of the stove, a kettle on top. He’d pulled his hair up on a bun, leaving the pale stretch of skin at the nape of his neck on show. Harry’s borrowed clothes hung off his narrow frame, the white shirt loose around his shoulders and the jeans baggy around his waist. He was trying to turn on the burners without magic. Would that even work? Harry’d never tried before.

Malfoy set the box of matches on the counter top. “Quit hovering over there and come help me, Potter.”

“Er, I’m not sure it works… without magic,” Harry said, pulling his wand and turning the hob on. “Are you making tea?” He asked, moving towards Malfoy.

“Handsome _and_ clever. You’ve got the whole package, haven’t you?”

Harry—decidedly not thinking about Malfoy’s choice of words—was about to reply with a jab of his own, but he was cut off by a loud c _rack_.

“Master should leave Kreacher to do that!” Kreacher reprimanded, flapping his hands to make them move, summoning a very old, delicate tea set.

“Er… Sorry, Kreacher,” Harry replied, taking a seat at the table. “I forgot.”

“You forgot your elf?” Malfoy asked, lifting an eyebrow. “No wonder he was nowhere to be seen yesterday.”

“No, I- Well, yes, but… What I mean to say is-” Harry exhaled, annoyed at himself. “Well, he hasn’t been around for the last five years! I haven’t seen him in… well, since I moved in here, I think.” Harry took one of the mugs Kreacher had levitated over to them, the rich vapour instantly warming his nostrils as he inhaled the strong aroma.

“As ridiculous as that sounds, it makes some sense, given the state of the house.” Malfoy grabbed the other mug, his hands firmly set against each side of it. “Have you summoned him back just for me, then? You needn’t worry, not even an army of house-elves could make me feel at home _here_.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I would’ve thought you’d learn some manners in that big old house of yours. Anyway, I didn’t summon him back, you berk, didn’t you see how he appeared here just now?!”

“What just appear- Oh! Kreacher!” Hermione said coming in from the hallway. “Oh my God, Harry! How did you- _How_?”

“I don’t know!” Harry replied, throwing his hands up, irritated. “We arrived today and he was here, and-“

“Ahem!” The elf cleared his throat. “Would any of the new guests like some tea?”

“New guests?” Ron said from behind Hermione, who was still standing in the doorway looking worriedly at Kreacher. “ _New_?! We’ve been living here for the past- Whatever.” He refrained at the stern look Hermione was giving him. “I do want tea… and a toastie?” he added, but flinched when Hermione pinched his side as he moved past her towards the table.

Once they were all settled, each of them cradling a mug of hot tea and a pile of ham and cheese toasties at the centre of the table, Hermione tried again.

“Kreacher, can you please tell us where you’ve been? We thought you were… Well, uh… Gone.”

“Kreacher _gone_?” he replied indignantly, raising a bony hand to his chest. “How dare the _muggleborn_ say Kreacher is gone?! Kreacher will only be gone when he’s dead!”

“Well…” Ron started.

“Oh, sorry, no, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Hermione interrupted him. “We just thought… Because we haven’t seen you in so long….”

“That’s because Kreacher was on strike,” he harrumphed.

“Excuse me?!” Befuddled, Harry felt his eyebrows go impossibly high.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Hermione clapped her hands together dreamily. “An elf on strike! About time you stood up for yourself. I need you to tell me everything, Kreacher—are you organised with other elves? Actually, a few years back, I worked on S.P.E.W. inspired legislation that-”

“Nonsense! Kreacher is not on strike from the house,” Kreacher cut her off. “The house goes on strike, so naturally Kreacher does too.”

“Excuse me?!!” Harry repeated.

Hermione wore a confused look that didn’t quite suit her, Ron was too entertained by his second sandwich to pay any attention at all, and Malfoy was awfully quiet, which Harry thought was terribly suspicious.

“What do you mean? Houses can go on strike?” Harry looked around, and his eyes eventually landed on Malfoy. He was staring into his tea, a blank expression on his face. “Do you know anything about this, Malfoy?”

“Well, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” He sniffed. “This is a very old Black Family property.”

“Er, yeah? Care to explain?”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed brightly. “Its core must be connected with Malfoy Manor’s! That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Evidently.”

Harry looked at them, feeling that he was clearly missing something. “But… I don’t get it. What does it _mean_ that it went on strike? How can houses have so much power, anyway?”

“His sharpness knows no limits, does it?” Malfoy sneered, and Harry kicked him under the table. His remarks were getting quite annoying.

“Well,” Hermione started, ignoring Malfoy’s death glare as he kicked Harry back. “As you know, Harry, only very old houses can accumulate enough magical residue to form a stabilised and powerful core. Grimmauld Place is, in a way, related to the Manor—which is not unusual for pureblood houses—but they also happen to share very strong cores. I would guess that Grimmauld sympathised with the state the Manor was in and decided to… go on strike? Is that right, Kreacher?”

“Very, yes,” Kreacher answered. “The house can’t stand the mistreatment and abandonment of such an old, dear house,” he replied, tears in his eyes.

“So why now? Why did the house summon you _now_ Kreacher?” Harry asked.

“That, Kreacher does not know. Kreacher is summoned, so he comes. It is not Kreacher’s place to ask.”

After that, he disapparated with another loud _crack,_ leaving the four of them deep in thought. Once Malfoy excused himself to his room, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were left in the silent kitchen.

“I think I’ll send an owl to Merryfold; this is important information,” Harry said, yawning, his exhaustion burning deep in his bones.

“Please try to get some rest, Harry,” Hermione said.

“Yeah mate, you look awful,” Ron provided unhelpfully. “But hey, at least we don’t need to worry about who’s doing the dishes now!”

Hermione swat him in the arm.

\--

It was extremely peculiar walking across the Manor’s green and vivid grounds. The clear sky shone over a patch of flowers that extended before Harry’s feet. He crouched to pick one. A white Narcissus. He felt a ruffling of feathers and turned his head to find a snowy, white peacock at his side. “Hey,” Harry said, offering the flower. The bird grabbed at his sleeve with its tiny beak, instead, and pulled. Harry thought it might want to guide him somewhere, so he followed. They walked together for a long while. At some point, though, Harry noticed that he had pulled ahead of the bird, so he turned around to search for the peacock and ask him if he was going in the right way.

A sudden, dry sound startled him; it was so loud, it didn’t quite fit amongst the peaceful landscape. And since when had the Manor become so peaceful, really?

Harry moved slowly, following the recurrent sound. Where was it coming from?

It sounded like a rock smashing against something solid, like wood? He felt a rustle in the distance and decided to pick up the pace. Movement between the blooming bushes indicated he’d found what he was looking for.

But it wasn’t. This wasn’t what he’d been looking for, he thought, as he watched, horrified, while a hooded figure smashed the peacock’s head against the ground. The figure lifted his head and looked at Harry with emerald green eyes. The peacock was dead. Harry wanted to scream but his throat was closed up. The figure dropped his hand one more time.

The sound reverberated, and as everything went black, he heard a voice shouting his name…

“Potter!”

Harry woke up agitated and confused. He took in his surroundings, and the early sunshine coming through the window did nothing to put him at ease.

“Potter, if you don’t open the door right this instant…!” Malfoy’s voice resonated from the hallway. His persistent knocks made Harry’s skin break into goosebumps.

“Sorry!” he yelled, voice raspy. “Coming, coming!”

He quickly searched for his glasses and slipped out of bed in a confused haze to open the door. “What the fuck do you want?” He tried, ineffectually, to muffle a yawn.

Malfoy was standing in place, his fist on the air and his mouth opened as if to say something that had apparently died on his tongue. He took one look at Harry, eyes traveling from top to bottom, and swallowed, turning on the spot and giving Harry his back.

“Would you _please_ make yourself presentable?” Malfoy’s voice sounded strained.

Harry looked down at himself. He was in his underwear. Right. Well, how was that his fault?! He’d been _sleeping_!! “I’ll ask once more, Malfoy. What the fuck do you want?”

Malfoy huffed. “Typical! Well, if you must know, I need clothes, Potter. Surely you don’t expect me to go days at a time in those awful rags you lent me? I rather think you should burn them, to be quite frank.”

“I am so, so sorry my dresser is not up to your fine standards. Would you like me to give you the trendy uniform the Ministry provided, then?”

Malfoy’s shoulders tensed, and Harry watched each movement of the muscles of his back as he took a deep breath. “I… No. That won’t be necessary. But if you mean for me to stay here, I’d prefer to have at least _one_ change of clothes.”

Harry knew he was right. They were making progress on the house, but he wasn’t sure how much longer would Malfoy need to stay. And then there would be the trial afterwards, something Harry was pointedly avoiding to think about.

“All right,” he said. “Let me… let’s get some breakfast first, and we’ll go get you something after work.”

“Capital idea.” Malfoy sneered, his shoulders considerably less tense now, and walked into the bathroom, presumably to get ready for the day. Which Harry should be doing too, he thought, idly staring at the blank space in front of him.

\--

“So, Potter. What’s your theory?”

Merryfold’s question came from upstairs, where she was clutching the first floor banister as Harry and Malfoy roamed around the pristine foyer.

“Well, all I’ve got is that it’s obviously recognising its Master’s presence. But I’m clueless as to what set it off in the first place. What happens when Malfoy goes to- er, back?” Harry refrained from saying prison. Fuck, what would happen indeed, _if_ Malfoy went to prison?

The house looked so much better already; barring the magical residue, it looked as if it had never housed a poltergeist or an evil, maniacal wizard. The furniture, too—it was honestly baffling how it had all happened overnight. Of course, there were still places to unblock—for example, the treacherous West wing had not been breached since the accident registered on the reports. And they hadn’t gotten far enough up to enter the attic. At least the kitchen had been cleared, and the East wing seemed to be recovering wonderfully. But what if it was all because of Malfoy—which it probably was—and once he was gone… what? Would Grimmauld Place go on strike again, too? It all confused Harry very much. But most of all, that odd sensation he’d been feeling since the beginning of the case had ebbed; it was still there, but barely noticeable.

“Where has your dog run off to?” Merryfold asked, coming down the stairs.

“What?”

“Better keep him on a leash.” She gestured around to show Malfoy’s absence. Great.

“Shit. I’ll check this floor, you check the kitchens?”

“I’m not his babysitter, you know,” she replied, annoyed, but she was already on her way, so Harry didn’t argue. He could only hope that Malfoy hadn’t tried to run away while they were distracted. Although, if he’d meant to run away, he’d surely had better opportunities at Grimmauld. The thought put Harry at ease as he crossed the long corridor of the East wing.

He couldn’t help but notice that the portraits had all been repaired, too, and many of them were occupied. He made a mental note to inform Merryfold and see if they could resume the abandoned interview plans. As he reached the ante-room at the end, he heard voices. Well, one voice in particular. Malfoy’s. Who was he talking to? He increased his pace.

Malfoy was sitting on one of the couches in the centre of the room, his back to Harry. He was nodding silently. As Harry got closer, he noticed he had something pressed to his ear.

“Malfoy?” he asked.

Malfoy turned around and made a shushing gesture. He was… on the phone. Where the fuck had Malfoy gotten a cellphone?

“Bene, bene. Sì, puoi chiamarmi. Grazie, Vera; I have to go now.”

Once he’d finished the call, Harry walked the remaining distance, resting his elbows on the backrest of the couch next to Malfoy. “Is that a phone?” Idiot. “I mean, who were you talking to?”

“Have you heard of privacy, Potter?”

“Yeah, I think you lost it when you came into my custody.”

“Charming.”

“As always. Now, tell me. And how come you’ve got one? You haven’t stolen it, have you?” Harry eyed him suspiciously.

“Why on earth would I steal it? Circe… you’re even more of an imbecile than those turnips at the Ministry. They didn’t think much of the small contraption apparently, so they didn’t seize it from my possessions. Lucky me, right?”

“Who’s Vera, then? Your girlfriend?”

“Oh no, Lord, no. Ugh, now you’ve gone and put that picture in my head. Thanks ever so much. If I were remotely interested in women, Potter, Vera would be the last person… Anyway, no, she’s my mother’s… carer. I was simply checking in, you see? Any other pieces of private information I definitely shan’t refuse to offer?”

“Oh… Sorry, no. How is she then? What have you told her?” Harry had completely forgotten about Narcissa’s condition, whatever it was. He remembered how disturbed Malfoy had been at the prospect of being taken to Azkaban and leaving her alone. It made sense that he should want to keep in touch with her.

“What’s it gonna be? I believe you said no, and then asked yet another question.”

Harry looked at Malfoy’s hands, his knuckles white from the force with which he was clutching his phone, belying his bored tone.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Malfoy let out a breath and, closing his eyes, tipped his head back, his hair brushing Harry’s forearm.

“She’s… as fine as I can expect her to be,” he said. “I’ve told Vera a job opportunity has come up and I’ll be away for a few weeks. I’m not sure what I’ll tell her after… after.”

A strong sense of determination settled unwillingly on Harry’s heart. He nudged Mafoy’s head with his elbow. “Hey, we’ll figure it out.”

Malfoy huffed, a slight upward quirk to his lips revealing that he was not entirely disenchanted by the idea. Malfoy’s eyes were still closed, but in that moment, Harry felt exposed and bare all the same.

\--

A renewed sense of purpose overtook Harry as they walked to the tube station. He’d managed to ask Merryfold to cover for him, and they’d left the Manor at noon. After all, Harry had had a very good, very flawless idea to get Malfoy some new clothes.

West Kensington was busier on Fridays, it seemed, as Harry had never seen quite this many people meandering around on his previous visits. “Come on,” he told Malfoy.

Harry wasn’t sure if side-alonging Malfoy anywhere other than the Manor would trigger the tracer, so he decided to just take the tube and walk the rest of the way. It wasn’t as chilly as it had been that morning, but it was cold enough, marking the season where the warm, sunny days had definitively been left behind.

They walked side by side in silence. Their arms brushed sometimes, and Harry found himself expecting the slight touch, an unfamiliar eagerness clouding his senses.

Finally, the _Bend the Trend_ sign came into view. They crossed the street, and Harry rushed to open the shop’s door, suddenly quite nervous.

“Welcome to Bend the Trend- Oh, it’s you again,” Billy’s co-worker—Maggie—greeted them, eyeing Harry suspiciously. “Billy!” She called.

Harry didn’t have time to reply before Billy hurriedly came from the back of the shop. “Yeah, Mag?”

“Your… friend, _again_.” She nodded scornfully towards Harry.

“Oh, Harry?” He said turning to him.

“Sorry for popping in unannounced, but I need your help with something…” He stepped aside, letting Malfoy—who was eyeing a rack of designer clothes with interest—into view.

Billy gasped. “Oh my God. Oh my God! You found him?!” he whispered excitedly.

Oh fuck, Billy had seen the picture; suddenly his whole plan started feeling like a very stupid mistake. Harry could only hope he wouldn’t bring it up.

Billy walked up to Malfoy and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Billy! Harry’s friend. How may I help you…?”

Malfoy looked a bit taken aback at the friendly greeting. “Draco. _Enchanté._ ” They shook hands and Harry was left watching them, awestruck. Malfoy’s small frame complemented Billy’s tanned skin and strong build, in a way. He was looking so much better now than when he’d found him less than a week ago. Healthier. And they looked good together, shaking hands and smiling at each other. Malfoy’s loose hair shone with an ethereal softness under the shop lights, framing his pointy features and making him look like royalty—despite Harry’s old, worn out clothes.

Someone cleared his throat and Harry shook his head, walking up to them and telling Billy a fabricated story about how Malfoy had had to come to London in an emergency and needed some clothes to get by. Harry knew taking him to a fashion boutique was maybe a bit over the top; they could probably get some clothes in a Tesco, but… well, Harry needed all the help he could get, and honestly, seeing Malfoy in designer clothes wasn’t such an awful prospect. He flushed at the thought; what the fuck was he thinking? He forced himself back to the conversation.

“So, what are we thinking?” Billy scanned Malfoy’s body with interest.

“Er… Something for every day?” Harry asked, looking at Malfoy. “Like a- a shirt? And… er, some joggers?”

Malfoy snorted inelegantly and Billy lifted a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“Excuse the dullard; he wouldn’t recognise good taste if it swayed in front of his nose,” Malfoy drawled.

While Harry wondered what could possibly be wrong with such a practical and easy outfit, Billy took Malfoy to one of the racks in the back, talking excitedly about ideas. All Harry could hear was “Just not too much black” before retreating to the corner of the shop and sitting on a footrest to wait.

Harry soon regretted not bringing something to read; forty minutes later, he was inelegantly yawning. Maggie made sure to give him dirty looks any time she had to walk by him.

“Oh, you need to see him!” Billy came to fetch him.

“What?” Harry asked, getting up and trailing after a very excited Billy to where the fitting room was.

When Malfoy opened the curtain Harry knew _what_. He turned languidly in a tight, silky white blouse that fitted his penchant for stylish flair. The first two buttons were undone, showing a tantalizing patch of skin. Grey washed trousers hugged his legs loosely and bunched around his black boots, the only item left of his own. He looked… good. Not that it surprised Harry, if he had to be honest. But in his head, Malfoy was still the boy from Hogwarts, always ostentatious and polished. This was definitely better, and Harry found himself feeling raw in his appreciation, something wild untangling inside of him. Billy had done a good job.

“I made sure to ask for the finest Italian silk,” Malfoy said, extending his arms to show the shirt. “Since you’re buying, Potter…” He seemed—well—happy, Harry thought. Playful and enjoying the attention. At least _that_ hadn’t changed.

“Er… it looks good.” Harry said, giving Billy a worried glance; he hadn’t thought about the payment at all. He could only hope Malfoy was bluffing. But of course he’d pay, even if it was only to see him dressed like that.

“Good?!” Billy said. “Harry, he looks _edible_.”

“Er… Huh.” Harry cleared his throat, suddenly finding the tiles on the floor extraordinarily interesting.

“Draco, show us the other one,” Billy urged. “Oh, you’re in for a treat!”

“Other one?” Harry asked distractedly.

But once Malfoy was back behind the curtain, Billy took him by the arm and started frantically whispering. “Fucking hell! He’s gorgeous, how- I mean, oh my God! Please tell me you’ll bring him to the club tonight!”

“Bring him to the club you say?” Harry raised his eyebrows and smiled. 

“Oh you bet your cute, rounded arse I do. You need to show him off! Don’t you want to see him on the dance floor?”

“Snap out of it! Show him off?! He’s not a toy, and certainly not mine to show off,” Harry spluttered.

“Harry.” Billy set a hand on each of Harry’s shoulders. “If you don’t, I will. I swear… Even if he’s not into me like he’s into you.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“What? No, what? That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.” He shifted his glance around the store. “Whatever. No. He isn’t… We don’t…” Harry crossed his arms. “We’re… not close.” Merlin, he almost said ‘mortal enemies’. Which he supposed was an accurate description, but for which he had no acceptable Muggle explanation. But then…. was it? They’d most certainly been mortal enemies, or something close to it, during school. Years and years ago. When Voldemort was still haunting their every waking moment. When Harry was so preoccupied and immersed in his task that he hadn’t had the time to mull over things like friendships or, in this case, enmities. But now... well, now he kind of did have the time, and even though it hadn’t all been exactly good, he’d gotten to know a different side of Malfoy. Maybe he had changed, or maybe it was just that they hadn’t had the opportunity to really get to know each other and it had been there all along.

In all honesty, Harry didn’t dislike what he was slowly discovering.

There were the usual traits that had always maddened him: Malfoy’s sharp tongue, his quick wit, his snarkiness and poise that made Harry feel like a nitwit idiot. But now there was also an unfolded sensitivity to him—the way he cared about his mother, the quick, easy trust he’d shown in Harry, all the ways in which he now fitted into Harry’s life, almost like the missing piece of a puzzle.

A sharp pain to his side brought him back to reality. Turning his head, he looked as Billy sheepishly pulled his elbow back while Malfoy finished opening the curtain to the fitting room.

Effortlessly stunning. That’s how Harry would describe Draco Malfoy in that moment.

Harry raked his eyes over the leather trousers that hugged Malfoy’s legs so tightly that every muscle movement was visible against the shiny garment.

“I must say, this is not completely out of my comfort zone.” He raked his fingers through his hair, admiring his form in the mirror. The light brown shirt was floaty and sheer around his thin arms.

Harry took a moment to indulge himself with the view. “Well, I think we’re all set then.” He might have dreamed the juvenile smile on Malfoy’s face in his reflection. But the way his eyes were staring right back at Harry? That was beyond question.

\--

Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his jumper as he stalled in front of the door. He tried to remember, for the umpteenth time, why this was not such a bad idea after all.

“We both need a break,” he recited unconvincingly under his breath. “We’ve had a trying week and it would be just a few drinks, in and out.” _It doesn’t have to mean anything_ , he added mentally.

As he was about to turn back to his room, defeated, the door opened briskly.

“Dear fuck!” a startled Malfoy yelped. “What are you _doing_?”

“Oh, er, sorry.” Harry said, unhelpfully standing in place.

“Your stalking abilities leave much to be desired.”

“Don’t be a prat, I actually needed to talk to you…”

“And were you hoping to do so from behind the door?”

This was not going to work.

“Can I come in?”

Malfoy stepped aside. “It’s your house after all.”

Harry went in. After looking around, he plopped down on the bed. There hadn’t been any substantial changes to the room, but it had been kept clean and tidy. The bed was made, and the open windows let a cool breeze in. There were no socks or dirty laundry on the floor. Malfoy’s phone was on the nightstand next to a book—from Grimmauld’s library, Harry supposed. It was fundamentally different from Harry’s, but also from Malfoy’s own room back in the Manor.

“So?” Malfoy asked after closing the door, a shoe tapping insistently on the floor and a pristine eyebrow raised.

Harry sat up from his slouched position. “Er, so… Listen, Billy invited us out tonight.” He purposefully left out where; he needed to tread carefully.

“Us?”

“Well, yeah. He seemed to like you and… Even if he’d only invited me, I’d need you to come with, ‘cause, you know. The, uhm, custody thing.”

“I see,” Malfoy said slowly. “So, let me get this straight— _you_ want _us_ to go out.”

“Well, we’ve both had a stressful week, wouldn’t you say? It’s just a few drinks, to wind down and… all that.”

“A stressful week! The understatement of the year, Potter.”

“Precisely. So? What do you say?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” Harry grinned.

“Fine. If that’s what it takes for _our Saviour_ to ‘wind down a bit’…”

“You’re alright, you know?”

Malfoy huffed. “Of course. Now kindly piss off, I need to change.”

Harry got up from the bed, hands up in the air. “Alright, alright! I’ll meet you downstairs at nine. We’ll take a cab to the club.”

“Club?! You didn’t say club!”

But Harry was already on his way to his own room and didn’t reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	14. Chapter 14

Absurd, Harry thought as he tapped his fingers on the counter, waiting for their drinks. Idiotic, his brain offered as the bartender handed him his whisky and a spirit. Ludicrous. He walked towards the little table where Malfoy was waiting, clad in his ridiculously provocative outfit. Where had he gotten that mesh shirt he was wearing under the new white one? Fuck’s sake.

“Enjoying my surprise?” a voice whispered from behind.

Harry turned slowly to avoid spilling the drinks. “I should’ve known it was your doing,” he sighed.

“Oh, come on! He looks gorgeous like that,” Billy said, falling merrily into step with him.

“Can’t you see that’s the problem?” Harry didn’t try to avoid the pained tone. He needed to get this stupid infatuation out of his system.

“Don’t look at the problem, look at the _opportunity_.” Billy wiggled his eyebrows at Harry, walking backwards to the table.

The flashing lights of the club were doing nothing to thwart Harry’s instincts. They danced over Malfoy’s hair, accentuating its softness. Harry wanted nothing more than to untie his ponytail and rake his fingers through the silky locks.

Just as he thought: absurd.

He approached the table, defeated, tension building in his gut. While Billy chattered, Malfoy was staring at Harry with a scrutinous intensity he was painfully aware of. Static hummed through his veins as their fingers brushed when he handed Malfoy his drink.

This wasn’t relaxing after a long week. This was the exact opposite. So when Billy grabbed Malfoy by the arm and suggested all three of them stepped onto the dancefloor, Harry stayed back with the excuse of saving the table.

Billy, the traitorous little rat he was, knew Harry liked to watch. That must have been why they stayed close to where he was standing, perched on the table, cursing the moment he’d thought that this would be a good idea. A slow beat of electronic music blasted through the speakers as Harry sipped his whisky, hoping the strong tang would distract him.

With the pounding rhythm of the music underlay a quiet sensuality that Harry felt branded in his bones as the mass of bodies in the dancefloor swayed to it. His emotions felt obscenely raw; focusing his eyes on Malfoy and Billy, he admired the lengths of their bodies pressed together. Overtaken by this new realm of possibilities, he let the fragile remains of rationality tumble into darkness, forgetting every reason, every argument to stave off what he was about to do.

The final drops of whisky fell on Harry’s tongue, the warm sensation washing away the last of his restraint. Aflame with newfound confidence, he neared where the both of them were swaying and one look from Harry sufficed to make Billy find someone else. He’d known all along how this would end, after all. 

“Are you done playing the part?” Malfoy asked, his lips close enough to almost brush Harry’s neck, the anticipation so keen that the only comfort Harry could find was in grabbing Malfoy by the waist, bringing him closer.

“Not really; I think I’d rather take my time, Malfoy.”

A fierceness flared in Malfoy’s eyes, the grey hues alight with the flashing lights of the club. He moved impossibly closer, his slender arms circling Harry’s neck, every firm curve pressed against his body. A slight sway of the hips set them off, moving in a slow rhythm that didn’t quite go with the music, which had already changed. They were creating their own melody.

“You should have said if this was what you wanted.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Harry whispered.

“You are now?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

Malfoy didn’t answer; instead, he rested his forehead on Harry’s shoulder and stayed there, breathing warmth onto his collarbone. Harry let him, registering every sensation from where their bodies met and the familiar smell of the platinum blond hair—Harry’s own shampoo mixed with something uniquely Malfoy. He catalogued every trace of his fingers around a waist clad in mesh, every brush of leather against his ordinary jeans. Malfoy tipped his head to the side in an almost imperceptible move, his ragged breathing coming closer to Harry’s cheek.

Malfoy muttered something unintelligible, and Harry instinctively moved his head down to try to hear. His heartbeat sped as he felt the corner of Malfoy’s lips brush against his. It would only take one move, one step. One decision. And everything would change. A breathless, urgent need to kiss him overwhelmed Harry, quickly drowning out the flashing warning that begged him to give this situation some thought. Consequences and… something. After all, he was well known for his impulsiveness; he wasn’t about to disappoint.

In one swift movement, he captured Malfoy’s lips with his own. Malfoy responded immediately, letting his lips part in a wet embrace that was welcomed eagerly. The soft brush of their tongues awoke a feral hunger in Harry, who walked him backwards, careless of other bodies, until they hit the hard surface of a pillar.

“Hmpf, Circe, Potter. Thought you wanted to take your time,” Malfoy said, breaking the kiss for a second. Harry took the opportunity to explore the side of his neck.

“I will, later. For now, I’m done waiting,” he mumbled against the pale stretch of skin.

Malfoy hissed as Harry nibbled on his ear. He let himself go crazy at the feel of every flex of muscles, every wrecked sound. White nose clouded his mind, rendering Harry unable to feel anything but Malfoy’s grasp on him, Malfoy’s skin against his and the sweet taste of his mouth, his quickened hot breaths. Harry relished in the closeness, he came to realise, he craved so much and Malfoy was so easy to give him. 

“Ah, do you think-“

“Yes.” Harry hurried to say.

“No, let me finish-“

“Yes.” Harry took Malfoy’s face in his hands and kissed him again, deeply. “Yes, whatever it is.”

Malfoy put a hand on Harry’s chest to make some space between them. They were both panting heavily; a few strands of hair had fallen from Malfoy’s now untidy ponytail and were stuck to the sweat that had gathered on his face and neck. Harry wanted to lick each drop. They stared at each other for a minute, tension building between them. Malfoy tightened his hand on Harry’s shirt, rumpling the fabric. Harry put his own hand on top. “Let’s go. Now.”

“What about your friends?”

Harry took a step forward, invading Malfoy’s space again. “I can’t possibly begin to explain how little I care.” When Malfoy’s eyes travelled down to his lips, Harry turned around and started walking to the exit, their fingers entwined in a tight grip.

\--

Their ride back to Grimmauld was uncomfortably quiet; for all they had learned to navigate around each other the past few days, they had yet to learn how to share an amicable silence. Tension always built so quickly around them. It had always been like that with Malfoy. Fast, passionate, aflame. They’d never learned to pace themselves, never allowed themselves the calm peace to learn each other. Their back and forth over the years had been a relentless, stormy ocean. And Harry had sailed the high waters of his own side of the open sea for the past few years, untouched, but with his head barely above water. Now, he was finally drowning. For better or for worse, he thought.

The silence escorted them through the streets of London like a third partner. They didn’t break it when they reached the front door. They didn’t break it when they took their shoes off at the entrance. They didn’t break it as they stared at each other in the hallway, nervous and unsure in the face of this turn of events. Harry realised that he was scared. For all the bravery he’d shown throughout his life, he was terrified at this very moment. And Malfoy probably was too. Now, out of the club, at home, all of this took a different meaning. They’d been building this momentum, and it could potentially change everything. Couldn’t it?

Harry broke the eye contact to stare at the floor. He couldn’t do this. It was wrong. He was _working_ with Malfoy; he was his custodian, for fuck’s sake! What had he been thinking?

A cold press of fingers under his chin made him lift his head.

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry snorted loudly, grabbing Malfoy by the waist and staring into those fathomless eyes, not unlike the colour of a storm in the middle of the ocean. He’d have to consider all the ways in which this was wrong later, he thought, because for once, he was going to let the water swallow him whole.

“You wish.”

\--

If Harry were asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say how they had reached his room upstairs, nor which of them had started the searing kiss they shared against the door. Harry simply didn’t know who had flicked open the button of his jeans or whether Malfoy had stripped out of his clothes all by himself. He couldn’t have possibly begun to remember how they’d fallen onto the unmade bed, panting and debauched, or whose voice was it that had chanted a seemingly endless string of ‘yes’ and ‘harder’.

What he remembered was the feeling of Malfoy’s flexing muscles against his skin; the wetness of a bold tongue exploring his pliant body. He could see the vivid image of small hairs raising under hot breaths and recall the savage lust that had overtaken him, the soft moans in his ear that created a rhythmic melody to accompany the sound of pounding skin, rubbing, sliding, clutching. He felt hungry, insatiable as Malfoy’s sweet tang invaded his nostrils, but there was nothing to swallow but the aftertaste.

\--

The sound of raindrops ferociously drumming against the window stirred Harry from sleep. He grunted, extending a hand to his side, idly patting the cold, empty mattress. Searching. _It should be warm_ , Harry thought to himself, still half asleep. _Warm?_ He turned briskly and opened his eyes. He swept them over the room, frantically looking around.

“Malfoy?”

Sitting on the floor, against the wall opposite the bed, Malfoy lifted his head to look at Harry.

“Come here?” Harry asked sitting up against the headrest.

Malfoy tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes closed, letting out a long breath. He looked frazzled. Harry had slept like a baby, but maybe Malfoy hadn’t been given the same courtesy. Still, he looked beautiful, Harry’s t-shirt hugging him like a warm blanket. Harry imagined running his fingers through his dishevelled locks, untangling them.

“Where did you get this from?” Malfoy asked, breaking Harry’s train of thought. 

“Get what- Oh.” As he sat up higher he saw the silver edges of the box peeking from Malfoy’s hands on his lap. “Er, your room? I mean, in the Manor...”

“Have you opened it?” Malfoy had his eyes closed still, but the displeasure in his tone was unmistakable to Harry, who was very familiar with it. He debated lying about it, but there’d be no point. After all, its contents hadn’t been particularly embarrassing or private, just… confusing.

“Yeah…”

Malfoy grimaced. He got up from his position on the floor, walked up to Harry’s nightstand where he left the box and turned towards the door.

“Hey! No, wait!” Harry said getting out of bed. Shit, he was completely naked. _Fuck!_ He thought as the door shut tightly behind Malfoy. He grabbed a random pair of underwear from the floor and rushed to the hallway, where a startled Hermione was watching the situation unfold from the bathroom door.

“Er, sorry.” Harry smiled briefly at her and started pounding on Malfoy’s door. “Malfoy! Hey, open up!”

“Go away, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice came muffled from behind the door.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asked in a groggy voice from behind Harry, apparently drawn from bed by the sound.

“Wish I knew,” Harry said flatly.

“Mate, why don’t you take care of the pants situation first?”

Harry, who had no intentions of explaining his “pants situation,” nodded and went back into his room.

Once he was properly dressed, he came out into the hallway again. Neither Ron nor Hermione were in sight this time, thankfully. He knocked again on Malfoy’s door.

“Can we talk?”

“Let me put this bluntly so that your one brain cell can process it, Potter. I don’t, by any means, want to talk to you. Go. Away.”

“ _Alohomora_!” Harry pushed the door open. Malfoy was sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking furious.

“You’re invading my privacy now? A little nostalgia trip for old times’ sake? This is low, even for you.”

“What?! No!” Harry replied, offended at the implication. He’d never invaded Malfoy’s privacy at school… Well, maybe a little, but that’d been different! The safety of the Wizarding World had been at risk. “No, shut up. Tell me what the fuck is happening, or I swear I’ll take you back to the Ministry.”

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. “So what is it going to be? Shut up, or tell you?”

“Tell me.” Harry said, taking a step closer to Malfoy.

“No.”

“Why not?” He knelt in front of Malfoy, carefully.

“None of your business. Now go, or take me back to the Ministry if that’s what you really want.”

“No, sorry…” One of Harry’s hands went automatically to Malfoy’s knee, seeking touch and warmth. A hurricane unfolded in conflicted grey eyes, searing into Harry’s brain. “I don’t want to fight, but you need to be honest with me. You can’t keep hiding; there’s no reason for it now.” Harry was talking about Lucius, of course, but in a sense, he realised, he was talking about them, too. Both of them had yet to acknowledge what had happened the night before. For now, talking about the box was easier, safer—at least for Harry.

“Look, it’s… it’s embarrassing. I can’t, ah…” Malfoy whispered, his resolution slowly breaking at Harry’s almost imperceptible touches. Harry squeezed his leg softly, trying to convey some form of comfort.

“You can trust me; I won’t laugh.” Harry smiled sheepishly. “I promise!” he added at Malfoy’s sceptical look.

Malfoy flopped back against the mattress, an arm thrown over his eyes. After a moment, he started talking again. “It’s stupid. I… During the war I needed some kind of hope, you know? It was unbearable living with _him_ in that house…” He let out a bitter laugh. “Everything was so shit; even if I’d had the guts to leave I couldn’t… Mother was adamant that our best chance at survival was to stay. Father, well, I’ve told you a bit. He was too involved, too lost to be saved.”

Harry moved on the floor to rest his back against the mattress, next to Malfoy’s legs. “It must’ve been hard.”

“Don’t patronise me, Potter. I did choose sides, after all. It was just... so much worse than I could ever imagine. Anyway, I was a bit desperate, I suppose. I passed time wandering through the passages of the house, wishing I could find something to hold on to. Something that didn’t remind me of him. But by then, everything was already tainted by his presence. Every object in the house was inextricably linked to darkness.” Malfoy seemed unable to stop once he’d started, so Harry let him speak freely, closing his eyes and letting his soft voice envelop him. “One day, I went down to the cellar to sneak some food for the prisoners—the Dark Lord’s idea of an easy, fun Sunday was starving people, among other things—and found this portrait of a woman.”

“Oh,” Harry said, opening his eyes and grabbing Malfoy’s leg to capture his attention. “I think I’ve met her. She actually showed me how to open the box!”

Malfoy huffed, incredulous. “Traitor… Anyway, yeah, she was one of Mother’s cousins. She died very young… She kept showing me the box, and I quickly became obsessed with it. I fixated on the thing, and searched everywhere for days. It sounds so stupid now, but at the time, it felt like a sign, and I needed to find it and see what was inside. I put all of my energy into it, spent every waking moment searching.”

Harry understood the feeling. He, too, got easily obsessed.

“I finally found it in the attic. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was empty. I felt disappointed, and angry. Hopeless. All my efforts had gone to waste; there was nothing for me there. Nothing. I went back to the cellar and yelled at her. Must’ve seemed crazy to all of the prisoners... I think I was, a little, by that point. I picked the portrait from the wall and threw it on the floor as punishment.”

This was too familiar to Harry, too similar to what had happened to him at finding that the box had held that stupid rag and none of the answers he’d been looking for. Maybe that was the effect it had on people? Maybe it was cursed with an enraging spell?

“Something like that happened to me, too.” Maybe if he shared his experience, Malfoy wouldn’t feel so embarrassed. It wasn’t that bad, anyway, Harry thought, getting frustrated and angry over stupid things. After all, Harry did that all the time. It was almost a personal brand at this point. 

“What do you mean?” Malfoy sat up and looked at him.

Well, when I found the box in your room, I kind of got obsessed with it, too, believing it held some sort of answer or clue to help me solve the case. But… there was just that old tie and… well that, er, picture of me?” He finished awkwardly, utterly embarrassed by the implication. “The point is, I got really frustrated with it too—quite angry, to be honest.”

“You know, Potter. I think I’ve lived through more shameful situations here with you in the past week than in my entire life altogether.”

“What do you mean?” Harry turned his head up to look at Malfoy, who was already staring back.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I- the picture… I… was rooting for you, in a way. The idea of you winning—well, I quickly found it was… a comforting idea. A hopeful one.” Malfoy was speaking in such a hushed, small voice that Harry had to strain his ears to properly hear him. He knew, of course, that his fight had been meaningful and that people had found hope in his image, not unlike he had done throughout the years with Dumbledore’s figure. To hear Malfoy had been one of those people, though, felt like a punch to the gut.

“You- You did?”

“Well, obviously. Why else would I have kept that stupid box filled with… you know.”

“Er- Sorry, filled with _what_? A rag?”

“No, you pillock, not a rag! How are you so impossibly dense?!”

Harry dodged the edge of a pillow being thrown at him. “Hey!” He got up and grabbed it from the floor, throwing it on the bed. “I guess there was a picture of me inside, huh?” He walked towards Malfoy. “You liked me that much, then?” He asked, making way to stand between his legs.

Malfoy huffed, looking to the side, the furious pink blush on his cheeks betraying him in an instant. Harry couldn’t help his hands when they moved to hold his face, brushing his thumbs over the lines of Malfoy’s jaw.

“I didn’t. I told you, I was a bit crazy by that point. I- I’d found that stupid poster… and I didn’t know why I felt the need to keep it; I guess because it meant you were still out there, fighting.” Malfoy let out a shaky exhale when Harry brushed a hand through his blond hair, pushed it back. “Then… before we ran to Italy, we had to go back to the Manor to pick up some things, and I thought about taking the box with me, but I wanted to be rid of everything. It felt meaningful putting the tie inside. Like some sort of end of a cycle. You know, it being the one I was wearing when you…”

Harry was looking at Malfoy with what was poorly concealed intensity. He swallowed. “The one you were wearing when…?”

Malfoy’s eyes bore into him, his cold hands moving to rest under Harry’s t-shirt, making him shiver.

“When you saved me,” he whispered. “From the Fiendfyre.”

“I see,” Harry managed to say before crushing him with a kiss that felt inevitable. A kiss that held a million things unspoken.

\--

Harry wasn’t sure how healthy it was, channeling years of built up tension into sex, but by the time Monday came around, he was still in Malfoy’s room—comfortably ensconced between soft sheets and warm skin—and he didn’t care about healthy. He just wished he could hold off the inevitable and stay inside that perfect bubble for a bit longer.

"Do you want me?" Draco had asked at one point. He had been draped over Harry's torso, his delicate features on show, quicksilver eyes looking at him expectantly. Harry couldn’t remember the time or the day, or if they had even eaten yet; but he’d been able to tell the sun wasn't up, just from how the specs of light reflected on Malfoy's irises.

"Yeah..." he had answered entranced.

"How much?"

None of them spoke for a while after that. 

\--

Another time Malfoy had tried to say something to him. Harry wasn't sure if he had dreamt it, because he felt the memory veiled by a thin, milky fabric, like a distant fantasy.

"You know I... I've never..." Malfoy trailed off.

"Never what?" Harry asked, holding him closer by the waist.

"I'm sorry," he said, impossibly low.

"What for?"

"Nevermind."

The kiss had felt on edge, restless.

\--

Stretching his back, Harry stirred in bed, letting himself take in the feeling of having Malfoy against him as the morning sun washed over their warm skin. He disentangled their legs and glanced at the clock. They had a little over an hour to get to the Manor. He kissed the top of Malfoy’s head. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice rough.

“Hmm…” was all he got in reply as Malfoy tightened his grip on Harry’s chest.

“We should go down to get some breakfast,” Harry tried. One of the many things he was beginning to learn about Malfoy was his love for food. During their two-day sex lockdown—that’s how Harry referred to it in his head—Malfoy had been lazy and slow in most respects, except when it came to food. Having Kreacher around now had been convenient, meaning they could avoid facing the outside world and still get their four meals a day.

“I’d rather go down on you…” Malfoy’s voice came, muffled as he kissed Harry’s chest. He stopped. “No, okay, let’s do breakfast first. Call the elf.”

“Er, well, I was thinking… we should maybe go down to the kitchen?”

Malfoy’s head shot up, his blond locks pointing in all directions. A pink sleep line ran across his left cheek. Harry traced it with the tip of his index finger. “What are you thinking?”

“That that’s an awful idea, Potter. Your friends will probably hex me unconscious, chop me into little pieces, and fry me on the pan next to the eggs and toast for a—scarcely nutritious I might say—meal. It’s not a sacrifice I’m quite ready to make. I’d rather experience a few more orgasms, personally.”

“Come on, you plonker.” Harry pushed himself up from the bed, letting Malfoy flop inelegantly on the sheets. “They’ll do no such thing. My friends are lovely and they won’t hex you… Well, probably. Let’s say there’s a fifty-fifty chance, but no risk, no fun.”

\--

Seven, Harry counted as he stared at his eggs. Hermione hadn’t said more than a rushed, high pitched ‘hello’ when they’d run into each other in the kitchen. Ron was set on clearing his throat loudly, apparently. Any second now, there would come the eighth ‘Ehem,’ and Harry would surely lose it. Malfoy had been hiding behind the sports section from a copy of The Prophet from last month.

“So!” Harry said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Eh, so…” said Ron, looking up, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Harry looked at Hermione. “So?” she echoed giving him one of her scornful looks.

“What a wonderful display of eloquence,” Malfoy said from behind the paper.

This was a disaster.

Harry looked down at his plate again. The silence was settling again when a strange, robotic tune broke it. Ron and Hermione looked incredulous as Malfoy pulled the phone from his pocket and stood up, excusing himself with a gesture.

“This is…” Ron trailed off staring at the empty space Malfoy had left.

“I know, it’s a lot,” Harry said, glad to be having any kind of conversation.

“…so bizarre.” Ron finished.

\--

After breakfast, Harry went up to look for Malfoy so they could go to the Manor. He climbed the stairs to the first floor with a merry step and a silly smile on his face. He didn’t care what his friends thought, or anyone else for that matter. He’d had a realization this past weekend. There was still a lot to talk about with Malfoy- Draco? He shivered at the thought; they were definitely not at that stage yet, although they’d surely get there eventually. After all, there was still time. Harry needed to figure out the trial first. Maybe if he spoke for him, explaining the true motive for Malfoy’s disappearance and how he’d helped with the house… Maybe there was a chance the Wizengamot would re-evaluate his case and lower the sentence. He was still thinking about it when he opened the door to Malfoy’s room. A suffocating, heavy air filled the space, and not even the cold wind coming in through the open window could break it. Harry was about to close the door and check his own room when he saw it.

The silver box sat in the middle of the neatly made bed. He walked towards it, picked it up. Inside, there was a small piece of parchment.

 _I’m sorry_ , the tight handwriting read. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	15. Chapter 15

Berrings’ letter came almost instantly.

_I’m holding off on any orders until you get here. Please hurry so that we can organise search parties._

_G.B._

Harry threw the parchment in the fire, its ashes quickly piling next to another, smaller pile. The box sat empty on the coffee table. He took a swig from the bottle of Firewhisky he had opened after finding the note. It was already half empty.

He’d been so stupid. So, so stupid. At what point, he wondered, had he lost all sense of direction? All rationality? It was so obvious, now, the trick Malfoy had played on him. He’d been weak; Malfoy had seen it clearly. He’d taken advantage of the situation, just as Harry should’ve expected. Of course, it had all been a lie. He couldn’t believe that, just a few hours ago, he’d been thinking of ways to lessen Malfoy’s sentence.

“Fuck!” The bottle crashed against the drawing-room wall, shattering to pieces in a puddle of strongly scented liquor.

Quick steps came from the hallway. “Harry?!” Hermione’s worried voice called from behind the door.

“’s alright,” he mumbled.

“Oh, Harry…” she said, entering slowly.

“It- It slipped. ‘s fine,” he said, patting his jeans in search of his wand. “Er, I think… I left my wand upstairs, can you…?”

“Yes, yeah of course. _Tergeo._ ” Hermione said. “Harry, what happened?”

“I told you, it slipped-“

“I mean with Malfoy,” she corrected in a soft, knowing voice.

“Let me…. I need, er- the wand…” he said, avoiding the question and tumbling out of the room as quickly as his feet would let him. Hermione didn’t follow.

He knew the conversation would have to be had sooner or later. It was just he had hoped it could be later and… under other circumstances. Now, he’d have to not only admit to having been infatuated with Malfoy— _and_ sleeping with him—but also face the fact he’d been tricked and let a fugitive prisoner escape.

Now that the thrill was gone, he saw everything so clearly: every manipulative move of Malfoy’s, every gullible response of his. It was a wicked thing to do, cruel and dirty. He went up the stairs he’d climbed less than an hour ago with a stupid little smile on his stupid little face.

What a fool.

His room was very much as it had been for the past few days: messy and abandoned. He hadn’t been inside it much except to change a few times when they… Right. So he must have left the wand in Malfoy’s- the guest room.

“Oh fuck…” he exhaled, breathing heavily as his heartbeat sped up in the face of his realisation. “Oh no.”

In an instant, he was turning the nightstand’s drawers upside down, then peeling the sheets from the bed. “ _Accio_ wand!” he yelled as a last resort.

Nothing happened.

The fucker had gone and taken his wand. Harry’s hand trembled against his scalp as he pushed his hair back, pacing the room from wall to wall. And it had been his fault; Harry had been the credulous fool that had left _his wand_ —for fuck’s sake—lying around like a pack of gum. _“Constant vigilance!”_ Moody’s voice repeated in his head. _“Constant vigilance!”_

Harry barked a bitter laugh.

Had the box story been a lie, too? _“I was rooting for you,”_ Malfoy had told him in a shy, sweet little tone.

“You fucker…” Harry muttered.

“Potter!” Merryfold’s little squirrel Patronus materialised in the room. “Come to the Manor. It’s urgent.”

Harry cracked his neck. _Urgent_. Either Merryfold wasn’t aware of the situation, or something really, really bad had happened. Right now, he wanted to see the world burn—and found himself hoping for the latter.

\--

Harry was lucky to have mastered some wandless spells as a result of his Auror training; otherwise, he’d have had to ask one of his friends to side-along him to the Manor grounds, and by the sight of it, it wouldn’t have been a very safe option.

An increasingly loud roar resonated from somewhere ahead as Harry made his way down the long, hedge-lined path. The air was thick despite the cold morning; there was still a bit of frost over the grass that crunched under the weight of Harry’s boots. Aside from the rumble, there were no other sounds. No birds, no insects, not even the rustle of the autumnal wind passing through tree leaves.

When Merryfold appeared at the entrance, signalling for him to hurry, Harry quickened his pace.

“Potter! Thank fuck. It’s out of control in here!” Merryfold’s usual tight ponytail was loose and wild, hairs stuck to her face with sweat. Her soft cheeks were smudged with a black, oily substance that had dripped over her clothes.

“What happened?” Harry asked, opening the door without thinking.

A strong, heavy pain below his ribs tipped him forward, folding him in on himself before he could take in the state of the house.

“Ah, shit…” he gasped, clutching his middle. The buzz from the firewhiskey he’d had earlier quickly dissipated, intensifying the ache.

Merryfold was instantly at his side, a hand on his back, not unlike how he’d tried to sooth Malfoy the first time they came here. “What is it?!”

“Ugh,” Harry tried to stand straight, holding himself up against the wall. “I don’t… fuck. I don’t know.” From his awkward position, he tried to take in the state of the foyer. If he hadn’t known the room, he wouldn’t have been able to tell where he was. Puffs of heavy smoke came from under every door, but seemed to stay inside the house, creating a greyish fog above them. A mucky, black liquid dripped from the walls, falling messily over the floor and furniture. The roaring was loud and clear now, coming from the West wing and making the doors rattle incessantly.

“I’m afraid it’ll only get worse,” Merryfold said, taking a look around. “You can’t work here like this; come on. Let’s go back to the office.” She took Harry by the arm and guided him out of the cursed house.

As soon as they were outside, the pain subsided, and Harry was able to breathe properly.

“I don’t get it… I’ve- there has been a slight, er, sensation before but… not like this.”

“Potter,” Merryfold started slowly, her features tense. “Please tell me you haven’t been coming in here, experiencing _sensations,_ and not telling me—because that would very, very idiotic. I can’t stress enough how idiotic that would be,” she finished with a tight smile.

“Well, I…”

“Fantastic! Oh, just wonderful! You’ll come with me this instant, tell me _everything_ about it, and then go read the fucking rulebook on team-work!” she yelled, storming off towards the gate.

Harry let out a long breath and followed, but not without taking a last look at the Manor, wondering what the hell had gone wrong with it. Deep in his gut, he knew that this had to do with Malfoy leaving, but he didn’t want to follow that line of thought yet.

He’d wasted enough time thinking about Malfoy.

\--

“I need to see Berrings,” Harry told Merryfold as soon as they were through the Ministry’s Floo. “He’ll be expecting me. I’ll meet you in the office later.”

“Don’t think you’ll get rid of me, Potter. I expect you to tell me every last detail of that _th_ _ing_ you’ve been feeling. We need to include it in the reports; do you understand?” Merryfold replied with an accusatory finger.

“I will!” Harry smiled charmingly at Merryfold’s venomous glare.

He then turned on his heel and headed for the elevator.

When he reached the Aurors’ floor, Berrings was hovering over Harry in an instant, before he could even fully get off the elevator. “Harry, my boy!” he exclaimed nervously, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “What took you so long? Come, come!” He signalled with a hand to follow him to his office.

“Sorry, Sir; I just came from the Manor…”

“The important thing is that you’re here now, boy. Now, please, sit down and tell me what happened with the Malfoy kid; we need to instruct the teams as soon as possible.”

“Er, I’m not sure why he left, if that’s what you mean. We were… I mean, everything has been going fine. We were having breakfast this morning before heading to the Malfoy grounds, and he just… disappeared,” Harry explained, finding it hard to hide the bitterness from his tone but unsure of what else to say.

“Do you think there’s a chance he’s been abducted?”

“Abducted? No, I don’t think so. He- He took my wand.”

“Oh, dear. That’s a very serious offense,” Berrings said, scribbling something on a small notepad.

Harry felt guilty for bringing that up; it would only add to the sentence. But it wasn’t his responsibility anymore. It never really had been.

“Sir, if I may. I’d like to be part of the search party.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, boy. You should stay and work the case. The teams are already formed!”

“I insist,” Harry said, giving Berrings a stubborn look. “I’m the only one who knows Malfoy. When we find him, I may be able to talk him out of whatever plot he’s come up with. He’s also got my wand, Sir. With all due respect, I _want_ to catch him.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Teams are scheduled to leave at three with a portkey. Please be on time, Auror.”

“I will. Where is the tracer pointing to?”

“Italy, apparently. It’ll reveal more information as you get closer.”

Italy? That was… very predictable, Harry thought. A risk. If Malfoy was on the run, why the hell had he chosen to go to the exact place he’d told Harry all about? It wasn’t very smart. What was his scheme?

\--

When Harry came out of Merryfold’s office at noon, he was exhausted. It had been a long, complicated day, and he’d be heading to Italy in a few hours. It was a bizarre concept. He needed a drink. And probably a nap too. He opened the door to this office with the intention of doing exactly that when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Harry,” came Hermione’s soft voice. “Do you want to have lunch with us?”

“Hey mate,” Ron said when Harry turned to face them.

“Hey guys, er, I’m rather knackered. Was hoping to get a few hours in before- well, I’m going with the search party to find Malfoy.”

“Oh! That’s… good? Where has the tracer led you?” Hermione asked with curious eyes.

Not wanting to leave his friends out of the loop, Harry decided to accept the offer to lunch. He could nap later. “Er, let’s go and I’ll tell you.”

\--

Two minutes left, Harry thought, glancing at the clock on the wall. The hand he was holding out to touch the broken vase was starting to ache. He yawned loudly, and some of the Aurors from his team gave him patronizing looks. He was extremely tired. He hadn’t had the time to nap, after all; Hermione had asked question after question, and Harry had told them everything. About Italy, about Narcissa, about the box. About… about them. Together. He shook his head; this was not the time to be thinking about that. It was in the past now. Gone.

“In five!” One of his teammates called. “…Four! Three! Two… One!”

Harry felt the unpleasant pull behind his navel making him spin faster and faster, to the point where he was sure he’d be sent flying by the speed of it. They managed to land—some better than others—on top of a small hill overlooking a seaside village. While they took a moment to regroup and talk over the strategy, Harry walked away a few paces to compose himself and take in the place.

The afternoon sun shone bright and hot over the shimmering sea, reflecting little bursts of light like fallen stars on the salty water. Down the hill was a small town, its asymmetrical arrangement of terracotta tiled roofs contrasting with the vibrant green of the trees scattered around. It was so peaceful and beautiful that for a brief moment, Harry forgot what it was they were about to do. Such a lovely sight didn’t quite match with the concept of a fugitive dark wizard’s den.

The Aurors activated the tracer to get a more accurate lead and started to walk down the hill towards the village. Harry followed, letting the warmth of the sun wash over him. As they descended, a small cobblestone path replaced the green grass under their feet. They walked through a narrow street, the old walls were covered in bougainvilleas and overgrown vines cascading against the stone from which little wooden windows poked out. Harry walked behind the group, watching, entranced, every detail and every flower. He committed the feeling of breathing the humid air to his memory as well as the mixture of smells coming from small, decorative flower pots next to each door they passed by. A few small tables flanked the door to a small café. Harry imagined sitting there, peaceful, letting the soft breeze from the sea caress his skin as the strong smell of Italian coffee washed away his slumber. The vision of a delicate, pale hand on his shoulder woke him from his daydream, pulling him from the easiness of just existing in that fantasy space.

As they took a turn, following the tracer indications, a big courtyard unfolded in front of them. It was a square, cobbled space surrounded by a motley arrangement of apartments that, in some bizarre way, appeared cohesive when they were all put together one next to the other. A very ancient tree stood in the middle, imposing in its size. Harry startled when a small cat jumped from a low terrace, running off into the distance.

“Okay, team! The tracer points to the third door on the right.” One of the Aurors—Higgs…? Harry tried to remember—started giving orders.

Harry’s heartbeat sped up.

“Wexley and Alderton, you come with me. Wilkinson and Dehoff you’re with Farley. Potter,” Higgs said, turning to him. “Take your pick.”

This was it. 

“I should go in first. Give me fifteen minutes. If I don’t come out, you’re cleared to follow.”

“Sir, this is a dangerous man-“

“Precisely. We don’t want him to run away again, do we?” Harry said, mustering his most authoritative tone. “We need to tread carefully around Malfoy, and I know him best. He won’t be as scared if I come in alone. You be at the ready; I’ll signal for you if anything happens.”

“Understood!” The teams spread around the courtyard, taking position and leaving Harry alone.

He took a few steps towards a small set of stone stairs and looked up to the sky. The sun didn’t reach him, there, and the warmth was gone.

\--

The small space Harry entered after he opened the faded wooden door was poorly lit. Taking a quick look around, he identified a small door to his left and a spiral staircase to the upper floor. When he got closer to the door to inspect it, he heard voices coming from upstairs.

"Va bene, fai la spesa, per favore."

"Desidera qualcos'altro?"

"No, grazie, Vera."

Vera. Wasn't that Narcissa's carer? Someone was coming down the stairs. Harry took a step back, taking cover in the shadows of the corner, close to the door. He watched as an old, grey-haired woman walked out of the building holding a massive shopping bag. Once he was sure she'd left, he climbed the stairs one by one, as silently as he could.

"You scared me," the voice said. Malfoy.

Harry reached a door, slightly opened. He stood behind it, trying to see inside. But he already knew what he'd find, even if the door had been fully opened.

He only caught a glimpse. A woman was sitting on a rocking chair, her back to Harry. Her long hair fell in rivulets over the backrest. A pale hand came from her right side, stroking the locks in an endless motion.

"Vera will get you something for your fever, mother. Don't fret. You'll be alright in no time.” Malfoy's voice was soft and tender, twisting a knot in Harry's stomach. “Do you want to know a secret?"

Narcissa didn't answer.

"There wasn't any job overseas. I've been with Potter all this time." Malfoy scoffed. "Can you imagine? He's trying to fix the Manor. I think the core may have destabilized, you know… after we left." Malfoy stopped stroking her hair. "Oh, I know you don't like to hear about it. No need to be rude! Not after what I did for you. I had to steal Potter's wand to come here. They'll be coming after me, so you’d better treat me right." He resumed the stroking. "I'm not sure if Potter will be here, though. I hope so. He's been nice to be around. Not the prat he was in school, you know? Just… nice. I'm starting to like him."

Harry felt a wave of nausea hit his stomach. He rested his head against the wall, bits of peeling paint falling silently to the tiled floor.

This was not what he'd expected. He needed to get into action; any minute now the Aurors would come up and find them.

"You know," Harry said, coming through the door. "I'm not sure, at this point, if complicating my life is your own life’s goal, Malfoy, or just a very dedicated hobby."

Malfoy's head snapped up so fast it would've been comical under any other circumstances.

"You came!" Malfoy said, grabbing Narcissa's hand tightly.

"And I'm not alone, I can assure you. Are you out of your mind, Malfoy? How could you even think… Do you know what will happen now, you idiot?!"

"I… I freaked out! Vera called me saying Mother was sick and… Well, I'm sorry. I don't expect you to understand, but I left a note."

"Oh don't even start with the fucking note! 'I'm sorry', yeah, thanks for the explanation you pillock!"

"So, what you're saying is you didn't read the backside?"

"What… what backside?"

"Oh, I don't know. The backside where I wrote that Mother needed help and I took your wand and _then_ , because I had ran out of space-"

"Fucking hell, Malfoy. How the fuck was I supposed to know? Excuse me for finding that ominous note inside that freaking box and thinking the worst! Fuck!” Harry yelled, throwing his arms up. “We don’t have much time, what happened to her?"

Malfoy looked at his mother. "She's… she's been unresponsive for the last few years. It started slowly, losing speech and then some movement. Now she's just… well. Anyway, she had a fever last night—Vera stayed awake with her all night but, it got worse and- and then she kind of spasmed; I don't know." Malfoy's voice went low and broken. "I don't know what's wrong with her," he whispered.

Harry took a few steps into the room. "Malfoy," he said standing at his side. "I'm no Healer, but I think she needs professional help.

"I've tried!"

Harry grabbed him by the shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. "From our world, Malfoy."

"I- I can't… they'll take her."

"No one'll take her in this state. I promise. There's been… a condition, there was a boom after the war. From what you're telling me, she could be suffering from that—and even if she isn't, what's the point of keeping her here, getting worse? You can't keep hiding forever. We've talked about this."

Malfoy closed his eyes and exhaled as if he’d known Harry's words were forthcoming. As if he'd been expecting them—because he had to know, surely, that this life wasn't sustainable for either of them.

"I know."

Sounds of movement came from downstairs, signalling their time was up.

"Shit, they're coming." Harry quickly dropped his hand.

Malfoy looked at him, lost. "What… What do I do? I can't leave her…"

"I'll take care of her. Hey," Harry took a step so they could be face to face, see eye to eye, like they had so many times this past week. "Do you trust me?"

Malfoy huffed, rolling his eyes. "Do I _trust_ you? Ha… do I… I- I do. Yeah."

"Good," Harry said in a low voice. They were close enough to touch, to kiss. And despite all of his anger, all he wanted in that moment was to feel the truth of Malfoy's words through a tender touch. His eyes travelled to Malfoy's lips, his tongue poking out to wet them, nervous and hungry. Like a promise of more to come. "You've got to turn yourself in."

"What?!"

"It's the only way…" Harry took a step back; he was getting too distracted. "You can still turn this in your favour."

"But Vera… I need to explain things to her."

The sound of steps coming up the stairs was getting louder.

"I'll do it. I promise! Now go!"

Malfoy took a look around, then lowered to a crouch in front of Narcissa and, squeezing her hand, whispered, "I'll come back. I love you."

As he stood to get out of the room, Harry stopped him. "Wait! You've got something of mine." He smiled.

"Right." Malfoy reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out Harry's wand.

"FREEZE!" Higgs shouted. " _Accio_ wand!"

Harry's wand went flying out of Malfoy's hand as fast as a Firebolt.

"On your knees!"

Malfoy went down obligingly, looking Harry in the eyes all the while.

"He was just giving it to me," Harry said, walking briskly towards Higgs with his hand stretched out. "I'll want that on the record. Now take him."

The other Aurors came from behind Higgs and cast a spell to cuff Malfoy's hands behind his back. As they took him out of the room, Harry approached Higgs. "I’ll have to stay here, she needs a healer. Tell Berrings to send me a portkey set to London in an hour."

"But, Sir, isn't that…?"

"Portkey to London. An hour," Harry repeated, hoping, for once, that his name and reputation would get him his way.

"Yes, Sir," Higgs said, and left the room.

Harry went to sit next to Narcissa. She was staring fixedly out the window, a deep crease set between her eyebrows. He stretched his arms, throwing one around the backrest, his eyes looking straight ahead to where a pigeon was perched atop the windowsill, a small smile playing on his face. "I've got to say, some son you’ve got there, ma'am. But… I guess I'm starting to like him too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow.


	16. Chapter 16

If Harry had thought he was tired before, it was nothing in comparison to how he felt now. A mix of exhaustion, relief, confusion, and anxiety loomed over him like his own personal rain cloud—and there were still a few hours to go until evening. He lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose while he sat on St. Mungos' uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room. Narcissa had been taken in by Ministry orders as soon as they’d arrived, and now he needed to wait for the results of a quick health scan so that the Healers could confirm that she wasn't faking it and plotting her escape. Harry was pretty certain she was not, but it wouldn't hurt to verify it.

"Excuse me, Mr. Potter? We're ready for you.” a young nurse came out of the office to announce.

Harry went willingly, hoping to be finished with this as soon as possible.

"Mr. Potter, please come in; have a seat" a man Harry had never seen before greeted him. His name tag read Healer F. Sabre. He looked at Harry over his glasses, intent and curious.

"Hi," Harry said, waving wearily and sitting heavily on the chair. Merlin, when would it ever end? He was so, so tired.

"Well, let's go over the matter at hand, shall we? Christine, please close the door," he instructed the nurse from before. "So. Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, admitted today under Harry Potter's custody." There was a heavy pause as Sabre scrutinized Harry, who had no time for these kinds of games.

"Yes, you've got our names right. Ten points to the research department. What else?"

The healer looked taken aback by Harry's sardonic response. He shuffled some papers around and cleared his throat in clear discomfort. "Let's see, well, she obviously shows a severe case of MNC, the infamous Mind Numbing Curse. It's been a while since we’ve seen such an advanced case go untreated. I was just wondering how it got to this point…"

"That might be because she's been… away. She's received Muggle treatment, though, I believe."

"Yes, we've detected traces of some Muggle medications. Those should be stopped immediately. The thing is, Mr. Potter, as you may very well know, we're extremely short of space. She needs constant care, under expert hands. I'm not sure we can provide that at the moment—not until the annex is up and running, at least."

The hospital annex. That was what Malfoy Manor was meant for. And it was falling to pieces, filled with black goo, and burning… somewhere.

"Look, she's got nowhere to go. No relatives, er, available. If you could take her in… She needs to be here." Harry was at the brink of pleading. What would he do with Narcissa at Grimmauld Place? It was definitely not an option.

"Well, there might be a slim chance…" the healer said, his mouth twisting into a cunning smile.

"A slim chance, you say?" Harry asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Of course, I wouldn't oppose it if someone put in a good word with the Minister on my behalf; I've been… through some difficulties in the past."

Fabulous. Harry closed his eyes and cursed himself internally. He should have glamoured himself before coming here. But he had promised Malfoy he'd take care of his mother. Malfoy had trusted him.

Harry got up from his chair and extended a stiff hand. "Fine," he said. "I'll talk to him. But she will get the _best_ treatment available. And I'll receive daily updates to my office. Any news or changes, I'll be informed. Is that clear?"

"As water," Sabre said, shaking Harry's hand.

His ugly smile was still planted on his face when Harry left the office.

A long day indeed.

\--

Harry arrived at Grimmauld just after five. He wanted a hot shower, a cold drink, and a soft surface to lie on. He hung his leather jacket on the rack, instantly noticing the absence of Kreacher. Well, given the state the Manor was in, it didn’t really surprise him. They were back to square one. Or negative ten, more likely, since the house was now significantly worse than when they’d started working on it just a few weeks ago. Geez, had really only been a few weeks? Harry felt like this whole ordeal had aged him by a few _years_ , at least.

He trudged, sulking and defeated, into the study, intent on falling onto the couch and lying there for at least a full day.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice startled him from the settee, throwing his fantasy flying out the window. “How did it go? Did you find him?”

Harry sighed heavily, flopping onto the couch. “Yeah, yeah we did.” His voice was muffled as his hand slid down his face. “They’ve got him locked in the Ministry again.”

“Shit, that’s bad,” Hermione said in sympathy.

“At this point, I don’t know what’s better, ‘Mione. This whole thing’s a mess. I’m just… clueless.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking—after all you’ve told me, I think I might know what’s going on, but I can’t be sure. Not until…” She trailed off.

Harry turned his head, watching her intently. Could it be that simple? Hermione was, by all definitions, extraordinarily intelligent. But could it be that she’d solved, in a matter of days, a case that not even various teams of Aurors and Curse breakers had over the course of several years? Not for the first time, Harry wondered what would’ve happened in the department if she’d joined the Auror forces instead of pursuing law. But hopefully her work would prove much more significant in the long term.

“Until…?” Harry prompted.

“Until you return to the house. Together”

“Forget it. Not an option, ‘Mione. I trust you, you know that. But how in Merlin’s kingdom am I supposed to convince Berrings of it _again_? Being me has its limits, too. They’ve probably doubled the security by now, and he’ll surely be going to Azkaban untried.” A knot in his throat made him stop talking. He knew, despite what he’d promised, that there’d be no chances for Malfoy now. He didn’t even want to think about why that was such a devastating prospect. “Besides, you haven’t seen the house. It’s terrible; I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to recover it. It seems set on self-destruction—whatever that means for a house.”

“Will you at least hear me out?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Of course; all I’m saying is we’ll have to work around Malfoy’s absence. But tell me, just… I think I need a cup of coffee first, I’m knackered. By the way, I haven’t seen Kreacher around, have you…?”

“No, I think…”

“The house? Yeah, me too.”

“Yeah…” she agreed, getting up from her seat. “Let’s go to the kitchen; I’ll fix some coffee for you.”

“What would I do without you?” Harry asked, following her downstairs.

“Hmm, probably drink yourself to sleep,” she said, a playful smile on her face.

Harry snorted. “Wish I could say you’re wrong.”

\--

Harry cradled the hot mug, letting the strong scent awaken his senses.

“So,” Hermione said. “I’ve been thinking, yeah? And bear with me, this is only a theory, and… It could be wrong.”

“Don’t worry, it couldn’t be worse than what we’ve already been working with; spit it out.”

“A core it’s fundamentally made of magical residue that comes from witches and wizards’ own magical cores, right? So when that wizard’s soul is damaged, his core suffers too. Then the residue that forms a house core can be affected too, it sort of becomes… glitched. It begins to malfunction, in a way.”

“Makes sense.”

“So, what’s the supreme act of evil that damages a soul?” Hermione asked.

“Murder…” Harry replied immediately. “So what you’re saying is that the core was destabilised by the absurd amount of Dark Magic that Voldemort brought upon it?” Harry asked.

“Precisely.” Hermione continued, “The core was weakened and errant; the house must have been functioning very strangely during that time, too. Anyway, what’s the most powerful antidote for darkness, Harry? What’s that force so powerful that it can beat even death?”

“Er, are you talking about love?” Harry asked, feeling like a school kid again, listening to Dumbledore’s explanations for whatever had happened to him.

Hermione smiled sweetly. “Yeah, yeah I think so.” She took a sip from her coffee.

“So, you’re saying the house needs, what, love?”

“Well, in a way. You see, when Malfoy found that box and did… what he did—with your picture, I mean—what if he created a kind of charm, like a protection? I think that box became his safe space; it held all of his hope, and he must have put so much of him into it, oh, Harry, _so_ much… for it to work like it did.”

“What… what are you saying?” Harry’s hands tightened against his mug, the fine porcelain sliding against the sweat on his palms.

“The box became a sliver of light amongst so much darkness, it created a link with the house’s core—because, well, for one, Malfoy was the master’s son, but also because it might have been the only thing there that held something so pure. And then, as you told me, he came back! After Voldemort’s death, he came back and put yet another object in it—the tie—making it so much more powerful.”

“And then… he left,” Harry said, beginning to understand. 

“He did. So when the house was left abandoned and hurt like that, it could only feed on that hope, that love, making it grow bigger, stronger. And… hopeful.”

“But then, why is it trying to self-destruct, if there’s so much good contained in it? Shit! I took the box with me! Oh fuck! Are you saying this is my fault?!”

“No, Harry, can’t you see? The house _let_ you take it. When you first came in, it recognised something in you, some kind of imprint. So it let you take the box, setting something bigger in motion.”

“What do you mean, bigger?”

“Well, the house had been suffering, right? That’s the main reason it started acting out I believe; all that residue scattered around meant the core had, at some point shattered, but the box was still there—like a receptacle of hope. When Malfoy didn’t come back, it must have hurt it a lot. Like a lost, abandoned lover. But then, after so many years, it was _you_ that finally came. And you were a missing piece to the house, irrevocably linked to it by Malfoy. So I guess it tried to put you on the path to… well, to get you two together, I think.”

“But I don’t get it! If the house needed Malfoy so much, why didn’t it summon him earlier? If it had that power, apparently, I mean.”

“I can’t be sure, but I don't think it was _just_ Malfoy it needed... Didn’t you mention you felt some kind of pain?”

“Yeah, and Malfoy did, too, when he was there. Actually, when Merryfold found him, that first time, she told me he was shouting and yelling and throwing things around… Could that have something to do with this?”

“Oh, er, I don’t know, I think that was just him making a scene. Didn’t you ask him?”

“Well… no.” Harry was a bit embarrassed to have forgotten such a detail, but he’d been in shock at the moment, too! Another thought came to his mind, then. “Hermione, wait, are you saying the house _manipulated_ us to be together?” he asked, with a mix of horror and relief at the thought that all of his feelings had been fabricated. That would, at least, give him a sensible justification for how smitten he was with Malfoy.

“Oh, no!” She laughed, dismissing his theory with a flap of her hand. “No, no, _you_ created that bond, Harry. You and Malfoy. The house merely… manifested the pain of it not coming together. But no, for it to work like it did, the bond must have already been there.”

Harry let his head fall into his hands. He closed his eyes, mentally preparing for an impending headache. “This doesn’t make any sense, ‘Mione.”

“Doesn’t it?” she asked innocently. “I think it does, actually. Anyway, if I’m right, that’s why the house suddenly got so much better when you two went there together. But then, Malfoy left, and you got… well, like you get. And… and it must have gone crazy with desperation. That’s why I think that if you two go there again, you might be able to make it work.”

“But then what?” Harry pushed up from the table. “Let’s assume for a minute I could get Malfoy out of the Ministry again—which is mental, by the way, but let’s just imagine I could. Then what? Would we have to live there until we died? Could we even leave? What if we fight? What happens when we fight, Hermione? Because we _will_.” He was practically looming over her now, both of his hands firmly planted on the table and their noses so close they could almost touch. He squinted at her.

“Oh, er, well, I think… I think, no, that wouldn’t be necessary—I mean ha, er, not until you _die_ , certainly not. But, maybe uhm… for like a few-” She started clearing her throat. “A few months? Until the core can hold on its own, I think?” she finished on a slight squeak.

“Do you think that’s possible?” Harry asked, sitting back. “You think the core can be patched up?”

“I’ve done some research, and there are existing records, not many but… I think there’s a bigger chance, assuming the bond is real and both of you are alive… There was a terrible case in 1487 where the destabilized core killed its master but kept calling for him... Anyway, I think your chances are better.”

“That’s hopeful,” Harry said sardonically.

“Well, it is just a theory, after all.”

“Something deep in my gut tells me you might be right, though. Thank you,” he said, offering a smile.

Hermione put her hand on top of his and squeezed. “You’ll be fine. We just need to figure out a way to get Malfoy out of there for good.”

“Yeah, we _just_ need to do that.” Harry exhaled, but took Hermione’s hand in his, and squeezed back, anyway.

\--

The rest of the week went by in a rush. Harry and Merryfold stayed late every day working on the reports, with so much new information to add, while also trying to work around Hermione’s theory. The house got worse and worse as each day passed, and by Thursday they deemed it a waste of time to keep showing up, since it wouldn’t let them in anymore. They stood just outside the grounds, watching it consume itself. It was a devastating sight that made Harry feel powerless and frustrated.

Meanwhile, Hermione—bless her—took time from her own schedule to work with Malfoy on his defence. They had agreed that the most plausible course of action would be to just ask for a hearing this time instead of trying to get him out under custody again. Even though Berrings had agreed to present the case to the Wizengamot, it meant a big risk for Malfoy; so many things could go wrong. Harry tried to keep his mind off of it, focusing all of his energy on the case and desperately trying to avoid the urge he felt to go down to the Ministry dungeons.

Despite the excessive number of hours he’d been working and how busy they all were, Harry’s brain still found the time to sulk during the few and scattered moments he had to himself. He came to realise that, despite his better judgement, he missed Malfoy. It had all seemed so rushed, but amidst the whirlwind of emotions he’d gone through, there had always been a particular longing that had nothing to do with the house or the case. It was a longing for a familiarity he didn’t quite share with anyone else.

Harry couldn’t help remembering how—during the short time they’d been together—he'd wanted to find every trace of goodness in Malfoy and disarm it with his eager hands. He'd wanted to dissect every microscopic fibre of his holy body and study it with a scientific interest, to better understand the subtleties of this wondrous mechanism, to better understand this infatuation bordering on obsession that haunted him in his refusal to call it love. But that was it, wasn't it?

Harry had never been in love; he’d loved and he’d lost so much, but he had never been so entangled in the sticky strings of such a powerful game. And he wanted, with all his might, to return to that safe space they had shared, to that ethereal moment of forgetting the real world and living through the spell of shared flesh and whispered words in the safety of a warm room.

\--

On Saturday morning, Harry woke to a very excited Hermione waving a parchment in his face.

“Harry! Look! Look!” she said, almost jumping on his bed, a frantic hand grabbing at Harry’s shoulder.

“Hmmph, ‘Mione let me… Ugh, what’s the time?” Harry asked, patting his nightstand for his glasses.

“Just after seven. Come on! Look!”

What an ungodly hour, Harry thought, sitting up straight. He took the parchment and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_We have received and approved the request sent by your legal representative, Hermione J. Granger, to appeal your conviction without trial. We are writing to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 8 a.m. on November 3rd._

_Hoping that you are well,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Meredith Ogden_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Harry gasped. “You did it,” he said, looking at Hermione with renewed admiration.

Hermione smiled widely. Monday couldn’t come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! Only one more chapter to go!  
> Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you so much for reading if you've made it this far!

“Mate,” Ron whispered, putting a hand on Harry’s jittery knee. “Calm down.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said. As soon as Ron’s hand lifted, however, his knee started bouncing again. “But where is he? He’s seven minutes late!”

“Hermione will be with him, don’t worry.” Ron whispered back.

“Oh, God. What if they set him up? Do you think I should go down there?” Harry asked, looking from his high bench to the solitary chair in the middle of the room.

“He’ll be fine- look!”

The wooden door swung open and a low murmur spread through the room as two figures came through it. Hermione walked with a brisk step, swishing her smart robes as her footsteps echoed loudly across the stone floor. Her hair was up in a tight bun, her face straight and collected.

Malfoy came a few steps behind her, wearing a set of Harry’s robes. Harry squinted; it looked like Hermione had tried to fit the garment with magic. It didn’t look bad. His blond hair was pulled back on a low, short braid. He took his seat on the chair, chains instantly binding him. Harry shuddered, remembering the many times he’d been here—on both sides of the stand.

Malfoy looked up at the people sitting on the bench above. There weren’t more than ten people, including Harry and Ron. At Harry’s left sat Berrings and Perkins, the Ministerial Legal Assistant that had been at the first interrogation. In the first row, Isaac Lahey, the Chief Warlock, sat with an austere expression next to his assistant, who held a quill poised in her hand over a stack of parchment. The other two were unknown to Harry; he assumed they belonged to the Council of Magical Law, since they had nodded in recognition towards Hermione when she’d entered the room.

“Very well,” Lahey began, and the room fell into a loaded silence. “Disciplinary hearing of the third of November, as per request of the accused, whose defence will be required to present the case following the reading of the charges.” Lahey shuffled some papers around as his assistant began taking notes. “The charges against the accused are as follows…”

And so it began. Malfoy sat stiffly, listening with his head bowed and an unreadable expression on his face. Harry wanted to stop the whole charade, but he restrained himself, tense and quiet, as they accused Malfoy of associating with a Dark Wizard, plotting against the peace between the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds, and breaching Wizarding Law whilst under custody.

Hermione began her defence, displaying a remarkably matter-of-fact eloquence throughout her speech. She told them about Malfoy’s motive for escaping after the war, about how he’d suffered under Lucius’ pressure, and about the trauma that having Voldemort in his home had caused him. She argued that, even though there had been many inexcusable actions on his part, they should take into account the fact that he’d been underage for the most of it and in what many would call a life or death situation.

Then, it was Harry’s turn to testify. He remembered all of the petitions for him to do so for past trials, just after the war had ended, and the state he had been in. The reasons why he had declined. He was at a different stage in his life now. He could see that. And so much had changed this past month—he didn’t want to lose this. So he spoke, calm, but at some moments unbearably honest. He began telling them how Malfoy couldn’t kill Dumbledore, how he’d helped Harry at the Manor when the snatchers had caught them. He told them about Narcissa’s lie, about her illness. He talked about the time Malfoy had been under his custody—with some minor omissions—and he talked freely about what had happened in Italy. Finally, he talked about the case, about the box. “I think that, even if all the things I’ve mentioned are not enough to save him from Azkaban, the current state of the Malfoy property—and the changes it underwent when he first returned—should be enough to prove that what lies under the name of Lucius Malfoy’s son is not a dangerous Dark Wizard in the making, but rather someone who, at the time of his crimes, was a scared boy—one that did all he could to save what he was taught was most important: his family. And, having been deprived of my own family, I can assure you, members of the Council, that I can profoundly understand the sentiment.” Harry finished, feeling Malfoy’s eyes set on him, hot and burning through his skin.

“Very well. There will be a recess while the members of the Council and the Wizengamot deliberate. We’ll reconvene in one hour,” Lahey announced.

\--

“Harry! You were great!” Hermione rushed to hug him when Harry and Ron appeared in the long stone corridor outside the courtroom.

“Thanks; you too. Thank you, really,” he said, smiling nervously at her. One hour felt like an entire year at this point. His eyes instantly fell on Malfoy, sitting alone at the end of the corridor on a small bench. Harry walked towards him, leaving Hermione and Ron chattering behind him.

“Hey, mind if I sit with you?” Harry asked, when he got close enough. Malfoy looked up and shrugged.

“How’s mother?” he asked, frowning.

“She’s being cared for. At St Mungo’s.” Harry sat beside him, crossing his legs in front of him, and rested his weight against the cold wall.

“Is she eating? Has she been ill again?”

Harry looked at Malfoy. He lifted a daring hand and carefully rearranged a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind Malfoy’s ear. “I receive a daily update on her condition. I’ll show you later. How are you?”

Malfoy closed his eyes for a second, then moved an inch away from Harry. “Oh, you know, not having a field day, but I guess I’ve seen worse,” he answered, pointedly looking at his nails.

“I… guess. Yeah.” Harry said, looking back to the wall with a frown of his own.

“Do you think… Do you think I can see her before-” Malfoy exhaled. “…before Azkaban, I mean?”

“Azkaban?” Harry asked, befuddled. “You’re not going to Azkaban!”

A swift lift of the eyebrow indicated that Malfoy was sceptical of that possibility.

“Am I not?” He smirked bitterly. “And why’d that be?”

“Because… Because! I don’t want you to.” Harry’s words slipped out, sounding miserable.

“Oh, I see. I forget, you see, how the system always works in your favour.”

Harry turned to stare at him. This sweet man, who had broken the law just to check in on his mother. Whose fate was about to be decided by a bunch of people who didn’t really know him, who hadn’t seen him undone and put back together again like Harry had.

“You’re insufferable, but I won’t let them take you. It’d be unfair.”

“Unfair?” Malfoy scoffed, his eyes wild. “Potter, _unfair_ was Gryffindor always winning the House Cup for some bizarre superhuman deed you’d managed at the end of the year. Me being convicted is simply justice being served.”

“Oh, quit the drama would you?” Harry’s hand moved instinctually to cover Malfoy’s, who snatched his away from under it.

“You quit it!”

“Quit what?”

“This…” he gestured vaguely to Harry’s body. “The pitying touches. Just, quit it! I don’t need you, or your pity, Potter.”

“It’s not like… You know what? Fine!” He crossed his arms, irritated, then turned back to Malfoy. His index finger was up, the words ready on his tongue, but they died instantly as they were all called back in again.

\--

They went back to their seats in silence. The atmosphere surrounding them was tense. Malfoy sat in the binding chair once more, the chains rattling loudly as they twisted themselves around his slim body. The Chief Warlock took his seat next to the court scribe and cleared his throat, making the room fall into silence.

“Very well, we’ll proceed to read the verdict.” Harry’s heart beat rapidly inside his ribcage. “For the charge of association with a Dark Wizard we find the accused… innocent.” Malfoy’s head snapped up as the quick scratch of a quill on parchment interrupted the tense silence. Harry realised he was holding his breath and tried to let it out slowly. “For the charge of plotting against the peace and welfare of both Muggle and Wizarding worlds we find the accused… innocent. For the charge of breaching wizarding law whilst under custody, we find the accused… guilty. He is hereto sentenced to 700 hours of mixed community service, during which he will complete labour to fulfill both Muggle and Wizarding social needs. The use of magic will also be restricted to basic domestic spells and charms for the duration of 2 years, during which the accused will not be allowed to leave the country for _any_ reason. Is that understood, Mr. Malfoy?”

Malfoy, whose expression was comically shocked, nodded slightly, a frown set between his eyebrows. “Yeah, yes.”

“Excellent. You will be expected to report your activities monthly. This hearing is closed; you are free to go,” Lahey announced. He stood up, straightened his robes, and walked out, leaving the Court Scribe to gather the files on the stand and trail after him. A few moments later, the Council members left the room. Harry watched them leave, one by one, making their way through the high benches in a practised choreography.

“Well, my boy. I’d personally have gone for a more severe sentence; I don’t think a couple of months in Azkaban can hurt, you know? But it is what it is,” Berrings, who had come closer to Harry, said in a wistful tone, completely ignorant of Harry’s relief.

“Er… yeah,” Harry said distractedly, watching, as everyone left, how Malfoy remained unmoving, sitting on the chair in the middle of the room. Unchained. “Excuse me,” he muttered and started climbing down the steps two at a time.

He ran into Hermione, first. She was just going over some notes with Perkins who’d probably be the one to organise the paperwork with her. 

“Hey,” Harry greeted. “You were amazing.”

“Harry! Thanks,” she said with a satisfied smile on her face. “It turned out better than expected. How are you?”

“Me? I’m just… You know.” He looked around the room, trying to not let his eyes settle on Malfoy. Trying not to seem so eager, so obvious all the time.

But Hermione, unlike some other people, did know. She knew very well, in fact. “Harry,” she told him, gesturing towards the centre of the room with her head. “Go.”

Harry’s heart beat loudly somewhere in the general area of his throat as Malfoy turned to look at him. There was a strange expression on his face—his glossy eyes and tight, white knuckles betraying him in an instant.

Hurrying his pace but trying not to draw any attention to them, Harry reached Malfoy and knelt before him. His hand instinctively went to Malfoy’s knee. He was just now realising how tactile he was around him. Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he needed the contact, or because he loved how responsive Malfoy was under his ministrations. So sensitive, but so eager at the same time.

“H-Harry?” Malfoy’s voice came, breathless and faltering. His chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hey, yeah. I’m here.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s hand, which was still firmly clutching at the armrest. “Why don’t we get out of this place?”

Malfoy looked down at their hands, then lifted his other arm as if noticing for the first time that the chains had released him. “Oh.”

Harry’s thumb started rubbing little circles over Malfoy’s skin of its own accord. After a moment, he felt the cold hand underneath his turn around and grip him with surprising strength. Harry lifted his eyes from their entwined hands and saw a pair of shiny grey ones staring right back.

“Hey, Potter… Let’s-Let’s get out of here.”

\--

“But, are you sure? We can do this tomorrow!” Harry said, almost running to catch up to Malfoy’s determined speed-walk.

Malfoy stopped in his tracks and turned to Harry. “Potter, if there’s anything _at all_ that can be done in order for me to not have to set foot in this awful place _ever_ again, I want to do it as soon as humanly possible.”

Harry nodded, deciding to keep to himself the fact that if they managed to get this place in order, it’d probably be home to Narcissa for quite a long time—meaning that Malfoy would have to set foot here not only once again, but likely much more often that he’d like. “Alright then; let’s do it.”

They reached the entrance steps and stood still, taking in the general state of the house. The gates had opened instantly when Harry had apparated them there, which he took as a good sign—but now, seeing the wrecked appearance of the house, he wasn’t so sure this would work.

Malfoy’s knuckles brushed against Harry’s, creating a sparking friction as they climbed the low steps, still covered in black goo. They walked slowly, trying not to slip. Harry grabbed the knob with one hand. “Ready?” he asked.

“As I will ever be.”

The door opened easy under Harry’s touch. It would have seemed almost welcoming, if it weren’t for the burst of smoke and stale air that came out, sending both of them into a coughing fit.

“Good grief! Look at this mess…” Malfoy said, taking the place in once he had composed himself.

In addition to the visible chaos, there was a strange quality to the quiet atmosphere—almost as if the house was treading carefully, waiting in anticipation, on the lookout. Expectant, but unsure.

Harry wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans before grabbing Malfoy’s cold one.

“What…”

Harry took a moment to just look. He looked at the confusion etched on Malfoy’s face, at his beautiful hair, his eyes, shining like stars in a sea of grey. He was still wearing Harry’s robes, which Hermione had indeed carefully fitted to his slimmer frame as Harry had suspected. He remembered how torn he’d been at the prospect of never seeing his mother again. How happy and smug he had looked trying on the clothes Billy had helped him choose. How pliant he had gone under Harry’s hands as he reached one of many climaxes that past weekend. All these little moments had been lived over such a short time, but with the clear intensity that had always marked their relationship. A storm in the middle of the ocean.

Harry let the realisation of it all hit him like a shocking wave, pulling him out from the deep waters. He breathed, such an automatic action. Such an effortless need. And he had been doing it wrong all these years, he thought. How had he survived, breathing so terribly, his chest so tight? He took a step towards Malfoy, then another.

A hand going up, cradling a bony jaw. A mingle of hot breaths. Thin skin covering the plump flesh of lips. A tongue poking out to wet them, awakening the shuddering hunger of desire. A sharp intake of breath. A better place to drown, Harry thought, letting Malfoy’s spit drip and wet his rough skin. He could give all of his breaths to this man, let him take them all away.

Malfoy broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.” Harry closed his eyes.

“I know.” Malfoy scoffed softly, a hand coming to grab Harry’s waist. “But why?”

“You stole my wand.” Harry lifted his head to look at him. “You fucked me, stole my wand, and ran away."

"You make me sound like a right arsehole, Potter." A second hand resting on Harry’s shoulder.

"You are, but… I’ve fallen in love only once in my life. And it had to be with you." Harry kissed him again, chaste and short. "I want to wake up to this feeling, Draco; every day, I want to wake up to you and, I refuse to let this—" he pointed between them "—fade into nothing but a faint memory."

"Look..." Malfoy gasped, shakily.

The first thing Harry noticed were the curtains—shimmering, now with an ethereal grace. As his eyes swept over the room, wondrous magic lifted the dirt from the walls and floors. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling tinkled merrily as the fallen pieces of glass attached themselves to it. The destroyed lounge chair regained its stylish, silky finesse and the wooden railing to the upper floors shone as if it had been just polished.

Draco stood next to Harry, an amazed smile playing across his lips. Their hands found each other’s as the house mended itself, no trace of magical residue on sight.

It was a little bit funny—Harry thought, taking in the unearthly spectacle—how everything had happened. Draco's cold hand was getting warmer against Harry's. Once, he would’ve rejected any kind of changes with all his might, but now, as welcoming and open to them as he was, he wouldn’t trade this one for the world.


End file.
